SOMEBODY'S   NEIGHBOKS. 


SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS 


BY 


ROSE   TERRY   COOKE 


BOSTON 
JAMES    R.  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1881, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Rand,  Avery,  &*  Co., 
Boston. 


8S  I 


I    OFFER 

THIS    BOOK    OF   NEW-ENGLAND   PROSE 

£o  Jftg  frmtti 
JOHN    GREENLEAF    WIIITTIER, 

MASTER    AND    MAKER 
OK     NKW-KN(iJ,AN!)    1'OETRY. 


269549 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

EP.EN  JACKSON      .               ! 

iss  LUCINDA go 

DELY'S  Cow 74. 

SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION 94 

Miss  BEULAH'S  BONNET ,120 

CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL        ....  153 

AMANDAR ^3 

POLLY  MARINER,  TAILORESS 229 

UNCLE  JOSH 263 

POLL  JENNINGS 's  HAIR 286 

FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY  WITH  PROVIDENCE  .    320 

MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE   .  368 


SOMEBODY'S-  NEIGHBORS. 


EBEN   JACKSON. 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thine  earthly  task  hast  done." 

TIIE  large  tropical  moon  rose  in  full  majesty  over  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico,  that  beneath  it  rolled  a  weltering 
surge  of  silver,  which  broke  upon  the  level  sand  of  the 
beach  with  a  low,  sullen  roar,  prophetic  of  storms  to 
come.  To-night  a  south  wind  was  heavily  blowing 
over  gulf  and  prairie,  laden  with  salt  odors  of  weed 
and  grass,  now  and  then  crossed  by  a  strain  of  such 
perfume  as  only  tropic  breezes  know,  —  a  breath  of 
heavy,  passionate  sweetness  from  orange-groves  and 
rose-gardens,  mixed  with  the  miasmatic  sighs  of  rank 
forests,  and  mile  on  mile  of  tangled  cane-brake,  where 
jewel-tinted  snakes  glitter,  and  emit  their  own  sickly- 
sweet  odor,  and  the  deep  blue  bells  of  luxuriant  vines 
wave  from  their  dusky  censers  steams  of  poisonous 
incense. 

I  endured  the  influence  of  all  this  as  long  as  I  dared, 
and  then  turned  my  pony's  head  from  the  beach,  and, 
loitering  through  the  city's  hot  streets,  touched  him 
into  a  gallop  as  the  prairie  opened  before  us,  and  fol- 

i 


2  SOMEBODY  S   NEIGHBORS. 

lowed  the  preternatural,  colossal  shadow  of  horse  and 
man  cast  by  the  moon  across  the  dry  dull  grass  and 
bitter  yellow  chamomile  growth  of  the  sand,  till  I 
stopped  at  the  office-door  of  the  hospital,  when,  con 
signing  my  horse  to  a  servant,  I  commenced  my  night 
ly  round  of  the  wards. 

There  were  but  few  patients  just  now  ;  for  the  fever 
had  not  yet  made  its  appearance,  and  until  within  a 
week  the  unwontedly  clear  and  cool  atmosphere  had 
done  the  work  of  the  physician.  Most  of  the  sick 
were  doing  well  enough  without  me  :  some  few  needed 
and  received  attention ;  and,  these  disposed  of,  I  be 
took  myself  to  the  last  bed  in  one  of  the  long  wards, 
quite  apart  from  the  others,  which  was  occupied  by  a 
sailor,  —  a  man  originally  from  New  England,  whose 
hard  life,  and  continual  exposure  to  all  climates  and 
weathers,  had  at  length  resulted  in  slow  tubercular 
consumption. 

It  was  one  of  the  rare  cases  of  this  disease  not  su 
pervening  upon  an  original  strumous  diathesis,  and, 
had  it  been  properly  cared  for  in  the  beginning,  might 
have  been  cured.  Now  there  was  no  hope  ;  but,  the 
case  being  a  peculiar  and  interesting  one,  I  kept  a 
faithful  record  of  its  symptoms  and  progress  for  publi 
cation.  Besides,  I  liked  the  man.  Rugged  and  hardy 
by  nature,  it  was  curious  to  see  what  strange  effects  a 
long,  wasting,  and  painful  disease  produced  up 
At  first  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  be  quiet  .  e 
muscular  energies  were  still  unaffected  ;  and,  with  con 
tinual  hemorrhage  from  the  lungs,  he  could  not  under 
stand  that  work  or  exercise  could  hurt  him.  But,  as 
the  disease  gained  ground,  its  characteristic  languor 
unstrung  his  force ;  the  hard  and  sinewy  limbs  became 


EBEK   JACKSON.  3 

attenuated  and  relaxed ;  his  breath  labored ;  a  hectic 
fever  burnt  in  his  veins,  like  light  flame,  every  after 
noon,  and  subsided  into  chilly  languor  toward  morning  ; 
profuse  night-sweats  increased  the  weakness,  and  as 
he  grew  feebler,  offering  of  course  less  resistance  to 
the  febrile  symptoms,  they  were  exacerbated,  till  at 
times  a  slight  delirium  showed  itself :  and  so,  without 
haste  or  delay,  he  ' '  made  for  port, "  as  he  said. 

His  name  was  Eben  Jackson,  and  the  homely  appel 
lation  was  no  way  belied  by  his  aspect.  He  never 
could  have  been  handsome  :  and  now  fifteen  years  of 
rough-and-tumble  life  had  left  their  stains  and  scars  on 
his  weather-beaten  visage,  whose  only  notable  features 
were  the  deep-set  eyes,  retreating  under  shaggy  brows, 
that  looked  one  through  and  through  with  the  keen 
glance  of  honest  instinct ;  while  a  light  tattooing  of  red 
and  blue  on  either  cheek-bone  added  an  element  of 
the  grotesque  to  his  homeliness.  He  was  a  natural 
and  simple  man,  with  whom  conventionalities  and  the 
world's  scale  went  for  nothing, — without  vanity,  as 
without  guile.  But  it  is  best  to  let  him  speak  for  him 
self.  I  found  him  that  night  very  feverish,  yet  not 
wild  at  all. 

"Hullo,  doctor!"  said  he,  "I'm  all  afire!  I've 
ben  thinkin'  about  my  old  mother's  humstead  up  to 
Simsbuiy,  and  the  great  big  well  to  the  back-door ; 
how  I/  nl  to  tilt  that  'are  sweep  up,  of  a  hot  day,  till 
the  l)f  "&  went  'way  down  to  the  bottom,  and  come  up 
drippm''  over,  —  such  cold,  clear  water  !  I  swear  I'd 
give  all  Madagascar  for  a  drink  on't !  " 

I  called  the  nurse  to  bring  me  a  small  basket  of 
oranges  I  had  sent  out  in  the  morning  expressly  for 
this  patient ;  and,  squeezing  the  juice  from  one  of  them 


4  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

on  a  little  bit  of  ice,  I  held  it  to  his  lips,  and  he  drank 
eagerly. 

44  That's  better  for  you  than  water,  Jackson,"  said  I. 

"I  dunno  but  'tis,  doctor;  I  dunno  but  'tis;  but 
there  a' n't  nothin'  goes  to  the  spot  like  that  Simsbury 
water.  You  ha'n't  never  v'yaged  to  them  parts,  have 
ye?" 

"  Bless  you,  yes,  man  !  I  was  born  and  brought  up 
in  Hartford,  just  over  the  mountain  ;  and  I've  been  to 
Simsbury,  fishing,  many  a  time." 

44  Good  Lord  !  You  don't  never  desert  a  feller,  ef 
the  ship  is  a-going  down  !  "  fervently  ejaculated  Eben, 
looking  up,  as  he  did  sometimes  in  his  brief  delirium, 
when  he  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  thought  his 
mother  held  his  folded  hands.  But  this  was  no  deliri 
ous  aspiration.  He  went  on,  — 

4 'You  see,  doctor,  I've  had  somethin'  in  the  hold  a 
good  spell  't  I  wanted  to  break  bulk  on,  but  I  didn't 
know  as  I  ever  was  goin'  to  see  a  shipmet  agin.  And 
now  you've  jined  convoy  jist  in  time,  for  Davy  Jones's 
a'n't  fur  off.  Are  you  calculatin'  to  go  North  afore 
long?" 

44  Yes,  I  mean  to  go  next  spring,"  said  I. 

Jackson  began  to  fumble  with  weak  and  trembling 
hands  about  his  throat  to  undo  his  shirt- collar,  —  he 
would  not  let  me  help  him,  —  and  presently,  flushed 
and  panting  from  the  effort,  he  drew  out  a  length  of 
delicate  Panama  chain  fastened  rudely  together  by  a 
link  of  copper  wire,  and  suspended  on  it  a  little,  old- 
fashioned  ring  of  reddish  gold,  twisted  of  two  wires, 
and  holding  a  very  small  dark  garnet.  Jackson  looked 
at  it  as  I  have  seen  many  a  Catholic  look  at  his  reli 
quary  in  mortal  sickness. 


EBEN  JACKSON.  5 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I've  carried  that  'are  gimcrack 
nigh  twenty  long  year  round  my  old  scrag  ;  and,  wheu 
I'm  sunk,  I  want  you  to  take  it  off,  doctor.  Keep  it 
safe  till  you  go  to  Connecticut,  and  flien  some  day  take 
a  tack  over  to  Simsbury.  Don't  ye  go  through  the 
gap,  but  go  'long  out  on  the  turnpike  over  the  moun 
tain,  and  down  t'other  side  to  Avon,  and  so  nor'ard 
till  jist  arter  you  git  into  Simsbury  town  you  see  an 
old  red  house  'longside  o'  the  mountain,  with  a  big 
ellum-tree  afore  the  door,  and  a  stone  well  to  the  side 
on't.  Go  'long  in,  and  ask  for  Hetty  Buel,  and  give 
her  that  'are  thing,  and  tell  her  where  you  got  it,  and 
that  I  ha'n't  never  forgot  to  wish  her  well  allus,  though 
I  couldn't  write  to  her." 

There  was  Eben  Jackson's  romance.  It  piqued  my 
curiosity.  The  poor  fellow  was  wakeful  and  restless  : 
I  knew  he  would  not  sleep  if  I  left  him,  and  I  encour 
aged  him  to  go  on  talking. 

"I  will,  Jackson,  I  promise  you.  But  wouldn't  it 
be  better  for  you  to  tell  me  something  about  where  you 
have  been  all  these  long  years  ?  Your  friends  will  like 
to  know." 

His  eye  brightened  :  he  was,  like  all  the  rest  of  us, 
pleased  with  any  interest  taken  in  him  and  his.  He 
turned  over  on  his  pillow,  and  I  lifted  him  into  a  half- 
sitting  position. 

"That's  ship-shape,  doctor!  I  don't  know  but 
what  I  had  oughter  spin  a  yarn  for  you  :  I'm  kinder  on 
a  watch  to-night ;  and  Hetty  won't  never  know  what 
I  did  do,  if  I  don't  send  home  the  log  'long  'i'  the 
cargo. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  was  born  in  them  parts,  down  to 
Canton,  where  father  belonged ;  but  mother  was  a 


6  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Simsbury  woman  ;  and  afore  I  was  long-togged,  father 
he  moved  onter  the  old  humstead  up  to  Simsbury, 
when  gran'ther  Peck  died.  Our  farm  was  right  'long- 
side  o'  Miss  BueFs.  You'll  see't  when  you  go  there, 
but  there  a'n't  nobody  there  now.  Mother  died  afore 
I  come  away,  and  lies  safe  to  the  leeward  o'  Simsbury 
meetin' -house.  Father  he  got  a  stroke  a  spell  back, 
and  he  couldn't  farm  it :  so  he  sold  out,  and  went 
West,  to  Farmery  Larkum's,  my  sister's,  to  live.  But 
I  guess  the  house  is  there,  and  that  old  well.  How 
etarnal  hot  it's  growin'  !  Doctor,  give  me  a  drink. 

"Well,  as  I  was  tellin',  I  lived  there  next  to  Miss 
Buel's ;  and  Hetty  'n'  I  went  to  deestrict  school  to 
gether,  up  to  the  cross-roads.  We  used  to  hev'  ovens 
in  the  sand  together,  and  roast  apples  an'  ears  of  corn 
in  'em  ;  and  we  used  to  build  cubby-houses,  and  fix  'em 
out  with  broken  chiny  and  posies.  I  swan  't  makes 
me  feel  curus  when  I  think  what  children  du  contrive 
to  get  pleased,  and  likewise  riled  about.  One  day  I 
rec'lect  Hetty'd  stepped  onto  my  biggest  clam-shell  and 
broke  it,  and  I  up  and  hit  her  a  switch  right  across  her 
pretty  lips.  Now,  you'd  'a'  thought  she  would  cry  and 
run,  for  she  wasn't  bigger  than  a  baby,  much  ;  but  she 
jest  come  up  and  put  her  little  fat  arms  round  my  neck, 
and  says,  — 

"  'I'm  so  sorry,  Eben ! ' 

"  And  that's  Hetty  Buel !  I  declare  I  was  beat,  and 
I  hav'n't  never  got  over  bein'  beat  about  that.  So  we 
growed  up  together,  always  out  in  the  woods  between 
schools,  huntin'  checkerberries,  and  young  winter- 
greens,  and  prince' s-piney,  and  huckleberries,  and 
saxifrax,  and  birch,  and  all  them  woodsy  things  that 
children  hanker  arter  ;  and  by-m-by  we  got  to  goin'  to 


EBEN   JACKSON.  7 

the  'cademy.  And  when  Hetty  was  seventeen  she  went 
in  to  Hartford  to  her  aunt  Smith's  for  a  spell",  to  do 
chores,  and  get  a  little  seminary  larnin',  and  I  went  to 
work  on  the  farm ;  and  when  she  come  home,  two  year 
arter,  she  was  growed  to  be  a  young  woman,  and, 
though  I  was  five  year  older 'n  her,  I  was  as  sheepish 
a  land-lubber  as  ever  got  stuck  a-goin'  to  the  mast 
head,  whenever  I  sighted  her. 

"She  wasn't  very  much  for  looks,  neither.  She 
had  black  eyes,  and  she  was  pretty  behaved ;  but  she 
wasn't  no  gret  for  beauty,  anyhow,  only  I  thought  the 
world  of  her,  and  so  did  her  old  grandmother ;  for 
her  mother  died  when  she  wa'n't  but  two  year  old,  and 
she  lived  to  old  Miss  Buel's  'cause  her  father  had  mar 
ried  agin  away  down  to  Jersey. 

' '  Arter  a  spell  I  got  over  bein'  so  mighty  sheepish 
about  Hetty :  her  ways  was  too  kindly  for  me  to  keep 
on  that  tack.  We  took  to  goin'  to  singin' -school  to 
gether  ;  then  I  always  come  home  from  quiltin' -parties 
and  conference-meetin's  with  her,  because  'twas  handy, 
bein'  right  next  door :  and  so  it  come  about  that  I 
begun  to  think  of  settlin'  down  for  life,  and  that  was 
the  start  of  all  my  troubles.  I  couldn't  take  the  home 
farm  ;  for  'twas  such  poor  land,  father  could  only  jest 
make  a  live  out  on't  for  him  and  me.  Most  of  it  was 
pastur',  gravelly  land,  full  of  mulleins  and  stones: 
the  rest  was  principally  woodsy,  —  not  hickory,  nor  oak 
neither,  but  hemlock  and  white-birches,  that  a'n't  of 
no  account  for  timber  nor  firing  'longside  of  the  other 
trees.  There  was  a  little  strip  of  a  medder-lot,  and 
an  orchard  up  on  the  mountain,  where  we  used  to  make 
redstreak  cider  that  beat  the  Dutch ;  but  we  hadn't 
pastur'  land  enough  to  keep  more'n  two  cows,  and 


8  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

altogether  I  knew  'twasn't  any  use  to  think  of  bringin' 
a  family  on  to't.  So  I  wrote  to  Parmely's  husband, 
out  West,  to  know  about  government  lands,  and  what 
I  could  do  ef  I  was  to  move  out  there  and  take  an 
allotment ;  and,  gettin'  an  answer  every  way  favorable, 
I  posted  over  to  Miss  Buel's,  one  night  arter  milkin', 
to  tell  Hetty.  She  was  setttn'  on  the  south  door-step, 
braidin'  palm-leaf ;  and  her  grandmother  was  knittin' 
in  her  old  chair,  a  little  back  by  the  window.  Some 
times,  a-lyin'  here  on  my  back,  with  my  head  full  o' 
sounds,  and  the  hot  wind  and  the  salt  sea-smell 
a-comin'  in  through  the  winders,  and  the  poor  fellers 
groanin'  overhead,  I  get  clear  away  back  to  that  night, 
so  cool  and  sweet,  —  the  air  full  of  treely  smells,  dead 
leaves  like,  and  white-blows  in  the  ma'sh  below,  and 
wood-robins  singin'  clear  fine  whistles  in  the  woods, 
and  the  big  sweet-brier  by  the  winder  all  a-flowered 
out,  and  the  drippin'  little  beads  of  dew  on  the  clover- 
heads,  and  the  tinklin'  sound  of  the  mill-dam  down 
to  Squire  Turner's  mill. 

"  I  set  down  by  Hetty  ;  and,  the  old  woman  bein'  as 
deaf  as  a  post,  it  was  as  good  as  if  I'd  been  there 
alone.  So  I  mustered  up  my  courage,  that  was  siukin' 
down  to  my  boots,  and  told  Hetty  my  plans,  and  asked 
her  to  go  along.  She  never  said  nothin'  for  a  minute. 
She  flushed  all  up  as  red  as  a  rose,  and  I  see  her  little 
fingers  was  shakin',  and  her  eye- winkers  shiny  and 
wet ;  but  she  spoke  presently,  and  said,  — 

"  '  I  can't,  Eben.' 

' '  I  was  shot  betwixt  wind  and  water  then,  I  tell  you, 
doctor"!  'Twa'n't  much  to  be  said.  But  I've  allers 
noticed  afloat  that  real  dangersome  squalls  comes  on 
still :  there's  a  dumb  kind  of  a  time  in  the  air ;  the 


EBEN   JACKSON.  9 

storm  seems  to  be  waitin',  and  holdin'  its  breath,  and 
then  a  little  low  whisper  of  wind, — a  cat's-paw  we 
call't, — and  then  you  get  it  real  'arnest.  I'd  rather 
she'd  have  taken  on,  and  cried,  and  scolded,  than  have 
said  so  still,  '  I  can't,  Eben.' 

"  '  Why  not,  Hetty?  '  says  I. 

"  '  I  ought  not  to  leave  grandmother,'  said  she. 

"I  declare,  I  hadn't  thought  o'  that!  Miss  Buel 
was  a  real  infirm  woman,  without  kith  nor  kin,  ex- 
ceptin'  Hetty ;  for  Jason  Buel  he'd  died  down  to  Jer 
sey  long  before :  and  she  hadn't  means.  Hetty  nigh 
about  kept  'em  both  since  Miss  Buel  had  grown  too 
rheumatic  to  make  cheese,  and  see  to  the  hens  and 
cows,  as  she  used  to.  They  didn't  keep  any  men-folks 
now,  nor  but  one  cow :  Hetty  milked  her,  and  drove 
her  to  pastur',  and  fed  the  chickens,  and  braided  hats, 
and  did  chores.  The  farm  was  all  sold  off.  'Twas 
poor  land,  and  didn't  fetch  much  ;  but  what  there  was 
went  to  keep  'em  in  vittles  and  firm'.  I  guess  Hetty 
'arnt  most  of  what  they  lived  on,  arter  all. 

"  'Well,'  says  I,  after  a  spell  of  thinkin',  '  can't  she 
go  along  too,  Hetty?  ' 

"  '  Ohr  no,  Eben!  she's  too  old.  She  never  could 
get  there,  and  she  never  could  live  there.  She  says 
very  often  she  wouldn't  leave  Simsbury  for  gold  un 
told.  She  was  born  here,  and  she's  bound  to  die  here. 
I  know  she  wouldn't  go.' 

"  'Ask  her,  Hetty.' 

"  '  No>  it  wouldn't  be  any  use.  It  would  only  fret  her 
always  to  think  I  staid  at  home  for  her ;  and  you  know 
she  can't  do  without  me.' 

"  '  No  more  can't  I,'  says  I.  '  Do  you  love  her  the 
best,  Hetty?' 


10  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I  was  kinder  sorry  I'd  said  that ;  for  she  grew  real 
white,  and  I  could  see  by  her  throat  she  was  chokin'  to 
keep  down  somethin'.  Finally  she  said,  — 

"  '  That  isn't  for  me  to  say,  Eben.  If  it  was  right 
for  me  to  go  with  you,  I  should  be  glad  to  ;  but  you 
know  I  can't  leave  grandmother.' 

"  Well,  doctor,  I  couldn't  say  no  more.  I  got  up  to 
go.  Hetty  put  down  her  work,  and  walked  to  the  big 
ellum  by  the  gate  with  me.  I  was  most  too  full  to 
speak  ;  but  I  catched  her  up,  and  kissed  her  soft  little 
tremblin'  lips,  and  her  pretty  eyes  ;  and  then  I  set  off 
for  home  as  if  I  was  goin'  to  be  hanged. 

"Young  folks  is  obstreperous,  doctor.  I've  been  a 
long  spell  away  from  Hetty,  and  I  don't  know  as  I 
should  take  on  so  now.  That  night  I  never  slept.  I 
lay  kickiu'  and  tumblin'  all  night ;  and  before  mornin' 
I'd  resolved  to  quit  Simsbury,  and  go  seek  my  fortin' 
beyond  seas,  hopin'  to  come  back  to  Hetty,  arter  all, 
with  riches  to  take  care  on  her  right  there  in  the  old 
place.  You'd  'a'  thought  I  might  have  had  some  kind 
of  feelin'  for  my  old  father,  after  seein'  Hetty's  faith 
ful  ways.  But  I  was  a  man,  and  she  was  a  woman ; 
and  I  take  it  them  is  two  different  kind  o'  craft.  Men 
is  allers  for  themselves  first,  an'  devil  take  the  hind 
most  ;  but  women  lives  in  other  folks's  lives,  and  ache, 
and  work,  and  endure  all  sorts  of  stress  o'  weather 
afore  they'll  quit  the  ship  that's  got  crew  and  pas 
sengers  aboard. 

"I  never  said  nothin'  to  father,  —  I  couldn't  'a' 
stood  no  jawin',  —  but  I  made  up  my  kit,  an'  next 
night  slung  it  over  my  shoulder,  and  tramped  off.  I 
couldn't  have  gone  without  biddin'  Hetty  good-by  :  so 
I  stopped  there,  and  told  her  what  I  was  up  to,  and 
charged  her  to  tell  father. 


EBEN   JACKSON.  11 

' '  She  tried  her  best  to  keep  me  to  home  ;  but  I  was 
sot  in  my  way :  so,  when  she  found  that  out,  she  run 
up  stairs  an'  got  a  little  Bible,  and  made  me  promise 
I'd  read  it  sometimes  ;  and  then  she  pulled  that  'are 
little  ring  off  her  finger  and  give  it  to  me  to  keep. 

"  '  Eben,'  says  she,  '  I  wish  you  well  always,  and  I 
sha'n't  never  forget  you.' 

44  And  then  she  put  up  her  face  to  me,  as  innocent 
as  a  baby,  to  kiss  me  good-by.  I  see  she  choked  up 
when  I  said  the  word,  though,  and  I  said,  kinder 
laughin' ,  — 

"'I  hope  you'll  get  a  better  husband  than  me, 
Hetty.' 

"I  swear,  she  give  me  a  look  like  the  judgment- 
day,  and,  stoopin'  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  onto  that 
ring,  and  says  she,  'That  is  my  weddm'-ring,  Eben/ 
and  goes  into  the  house  as  still  and  white  as  a  ghost ; 
and  I  never  see  her  again,  nor  never  shall.  —  O  doc 
tor,  give  me  a  drink  !  " 

I  lifted  the  poor  fellow,  fevered  and  gasping,  to  an 
easier  position,  and  wet  his  hot  lips  with  fresh  orange- 
juice. 

"  Stop  now,  Jackson,"  said  I :   "  you  are  tired." 

"No,  I  a'n't,  doctor;  no,  I  a'n't.  I'm  bound  to 
finish  now.  But,  Lord  deliver  us  !  look  there  !  —  one 
of  the  Devil's  own  imps,  I  b'lieve  !  " 

I  looked  on  the  little  deal  stand  where  I  had  set  the 
candle,  and  there  stood  one  of  the  quaint,  evil-look 
ing  insects  that  infest  the  island,  —  a  praying  Mantis. 
Raised  up  against  the  candle,  with  its  f  ore-legs  Jn  the 
attitude  of  supplication  that  gives  it  the  name,  its  long- 
green  body  relieved  on  the  white  stearine,  it  was  eying 
Jackson,  with  its  head  turned  first  on  one  side,  and 


12  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

then  on  the  other,  in  the  most  elfish  and  preternatural 
way.  Presently  it  move$  upward,  stuck  one  of  its 
fore-legs  cautiously  into  the  flame,  burnt  it  of  course, 
and  drew  it  back,  eyed  it,  first  from  one  angle,  then 
from  another,  with  deliberate  investigation,  and  at 
length  conveyed  the  injured  member  to  its  mouth,  and 
sucked  it  steadily,  resuming  its  stare  of  blank  scrutiny 
at  my  patient,  who  did  not  at  all  fancy  the  interest 
taken  in  him. 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  strange  manoeuvres 
of  the  creature,  familiar  as  I  was  with  them. 

"It  is  only  one  of  our  Texan  bugs,  Jackson,"  said 
I :  "  it  is  harmless  enough." 

"It's  got  a  pesky  look,  though,  doctor.  I  thought 
I'd  seen  enough  curus  creturs  in  the  Marquesas,  but 
that  beats  all." 

Seeing  the  insect  really  irritated  and  annoyed  him, 
I  put  it  out  of  the  window,  and  turned  the  blinds 
closely,  to  prevent  its  re-entrance ;  and  he  went  on 
with  his  story  :  — 

"So  I  tramped  it  to  Hartford  that  night,  .got  a 
lodgin'  with  a  first-cousin  I  had  there,  worked  my  pass 
age  to  Boston  in  a  coaster,  and,  after  hangin'  about 
Long  Wharf  day  in  and  day  out  for  a  week,  I  was 
driv'  to  ship  myself  aboard  of  a  whaler,  '  The  Lowisy 
Miles,'  Twist,  cap 'en  ;  and  I  writ  from  there  to  Hetty, 
so't  she  could  know  my  beariu's  so  fur,  and  tell  my 
father. 

"It  would  take  a  week,  doctor,  to  tell  you  what  a 
rough- an' -tumble  time  I  had  on  that  'are  whaler. 
There's  a  feller's  writ  a  book  about  v'3ragin'  afore  the 
mast  that'll  give  ye  an  idee  on't.  He  had  an  eddication 
so't  he  could  set  it  off,  and  I  fell  foul  of  his  book  down 


EBEN   JACKSON.  13 

to  Valparaiso  more'n  a  year  back,  and  I  swear  I  wanted 
to  shake  hands  with  him.  I  heerd  he  was- gone  ashore 
somewheres  down  to  Boston,  and  he'd  cast  anchor  for 
good.  But  I  tell  you  he's  a  brick,  and  what  he  said's 
gospel  truth.  I  thought  I'd  got  to  hell  afore  my  time 
when  we  see  blue  water.  I  didn't  have  no  peace,  ex- 
ceptin'  times  when  I  was  to  the  top,  lookin'  out  for 
spouters  ;  then  I'd  get  nigh  about  into  the  clouds  that 
was  allers  a-hangin'  down  close  to  the  sea  mornin'  and 
night,  all  kinds  of  colors,  —  red  an'  purple  an'  white  ; 
and,  'stead  of  thinkin'  o'  whales,  I'd  get  my  head  full 
o'  Simsbury,  and  get  a  precious  knock  with  the  butt- 
end  of  a  handspike  when  I  come  down,  'cause  I'd 
never  sighted  a  whale  till  arter  they  see'd  it  on  deck. 

4 'We  was  bound  to  the  South  Seas  after  sperm 
whales  ;  but  we  was  eight  months  gettin'  there,  and  we 
took  sech  as  we  could  find  on  the  way.  The  cap 'en 
he  scooted  round  into  one  port  an'  another  arter  his 
own  business, — down  to  Caraccas,  into  Rio;  and 
when  we'd  rounded  the  Horn, 'and  was  nigh  about  dead 
of  cold  an'  short  rations,  and  hadn't  killed  but  three 
whales,  we  put  into  Valparaiso  to  get  vittled,  and  there 
I  laid  hold  o'  tliis  little  trinket  of  a  chain,  and  spliced 
Hetty's  ring  on  to't,  lest  I  should  be  stranded"  some 
wheres,  and  get  rid  of  it  onawares. 

"We  cruised  about  in  them  seas  a  good  year  or 
more,  with  poor  luck,  and  the  cap 'en  growin'  more  and 
more  outrageous  continually.  Them  waters  aren't 
like  the  Gulf,  doctor,  nor  like  the  Northern  Ocean, 
nohow.  There  a'n't  no  choppin'  seas  there,  but  a  great, 
long,  everlastin',  lazy  swell,  that  goes  rollin'  and  fallin' 
away,  like  the  toll  of  a  big  bell,  in  endless  blue  rollers. 
And  the  trades  blow  through  the  sails  like  singin',  as 


14  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

warm  and  soft  as  if  they  blowed  right  out  o'  sunshiny 
gardens  ;  and  the  sky's  as  blue  as  summer  all  the  time, 
only  jest  round  the  dip  on't  there's  allers  a  hull  fleet  o' 
hazy,  round- topped  clouds,  so  thin  you  can  see  the 
moon  rise  through  'em ;  and  the  waves  go  rippKn'  off 
the  cut- water  as  peaceful  as  a  mill-pond,  day  and 
night.  Squalls  is  sca'ce  some  times  o'  the  year ;  but, 
when  there  is  one,  I  tell  you  a  feller  hears  thunder. 
The  clouds  settle  right  down  onto  the  masthead,  black 
and  thick,  like  the  settlin's  of  an  ink-bottle  ;  the  light- 
nin'  hisses,  an'  cuts  fore  and  aft ;  and  corposants  come 
flight-in'  down  onto  the  boom  or  the  top,  gret  balls  o' 
light ;  and  the  wind  roars  louder  than  the  seas  ;  and 
the  rain  comes  down  in  spouts  (it  don't  fall  fur 
enough  to  drop),  you'd  think  heaven  and  earth  was 
come  together,  with  hell  betwixt  'em :  and  then  it'll 
all  clear  up  as  quiet  and  calm  as  a  Simsbury  Sunday, 
and  you  wouldn't  know  it  could  be  squally,  if  'twan't 
for  the  sail  that  you  hadn't  had  a  chance  to  furl  was 
drove  to  ribbons,  and  here  an'  there  a  stout  spar 
snapped  like  a  cornstalk,  or  the  bulwarks  stove  by  a 
heavy  sea.  There's  queer  things  to  be  heerd,  too,  in 
them  parts,  —  cries  to  wind'ard  like  a  drowndin'  man, 
and  you  can't  never  find  him  ;  noises  right  under  the 
keel ;  bells  ringm'  off  the  land,  like,  when  you  a'n't 
within  five  hundred  miles  of  shore  ;  and  curus  hails  out 
o'  ghost-ships  that  sails  agin'  wind  an'  tide.  Strange, 
strange,  I  declare  for't !  seems  as  though  I  heerd  my 
old  mother  a-singin'  Mear  now." 

I  saw  Jackson  was  getting  excited  :  so  I  gave  him  a 
little  soothing  draught,  and  walked  away  to  give  the 
nurse  some  orders.  But  he  made  me  promise  to  return, 
and  hear  the  story  out :  so,  after  half  an  hour's  inves- 


EBEN   JACKSON.  15 

tigation  of  the  wards,  I  came  back,  and  found  him 
composed  enough  to  permit  his  resuming  where  he  had 
left  off. 

"  Howsomever,  doctor,  there  wa'n't  no  smooth 
sailin'  nor  fair  weather  with  the  cap 'en  :  'twas  always 
squally  in  his  latitude,  and  I  begun  to  get  mutinous, 
and  think  of  desartin'.  About  eighteen  months  arter 
we  sot  sail  from  Valparaiso,  I  hadn't  done  somethin' 
I'd  been  ordered,  or  I'd  done  it  wrong,  and  Cap 'en 
Twist  come  on  deck,  ragin'  and  roarin',  with  a  hand 
spike  in  his  fist,  and  let  fly  at  my  head.  I  see  what 
was  comin',  and  put  my  arm  up  to  fend  it  off;  and, 
gettin'  the  blow  on  my  fore- arm,  it  got  broke  acrost  as 
quick  as  a  wink,  and  I  dropped.  So  they  picked  me  up, 
and,  havin'  a  mate  aboard  .who  knew  some  doctorin', 
I  was  spliced  and  bound  up,  and  put  under  hatches,  on 
the  sick-list.  I  tell  you  I  was  dog-tired  them  days, 
lyin'  in  my  berth  hearin'  the  rats  and  mice  scuttle 
round  the  bulkheads,  and  skitter  over  the  floor.  I 
couldn't  do  nothin'  ;  and  finally  I  bethought  myself  of 
Hetty's  Bible,  and  contrived  to  get  it  out  o'  my  chist, 
and  when  I  could  get  a  bit  of  a  glim  I'd  read  it.  I'm  a 
master-hand  to  remember  things  ;  and  what  I  read,  over 
and  over  in  that  'are  dog-hole  of  a  cabin  never  got 
clean  out  of  my  head,  no,  nor  never  will ;  and,  when 
the  Lord  above  calls  all  hands  on  deck  to  pass  muster, 
ef  I'm  ship-shape  afore  him,  it'll  be  because  I  follered 
his  signals,  and  1'arn't  'em  out  of  that  'are  log.  But 
I  didn't  foller  'em  then,  nor  not  for  a  plaguy  long 
cruise  yet. 

"  One  day,  as  I  laid  there,  readin'  by  the  light  of  a 
bit  of  tallow-dip  the^mate  gave  me,  who  should  stick 
his  head  into  the  hole  he  called  a  cabin,  but  old  Twist ! 


16       SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

He'd  got  an  idee  I  was  shammin'  ;  and,  when  he  saw 
me  with  a  book,  he  cussed  and  swore  and  raved,  and 
finally  hauled  it  out  o'  my  hand,  and  flung  it  up  through 
the  hatchway  clean  and  clear  overboard. 

"I  tell  ye,  doctor,  if  I'd  'a'  had  a  sound  arm,  he'd 
'a'  gone  after  it ;  but  I  had  to  take*  it  out  in  ratin'  at 
him,  and  that  night  my  mind  was  made  up :  I  was 
bound  to  desart  at  the  first  land.  And  it  come  about 
that  a  fortnight  after  my  arm  had  jined,  and  I  Could 
haul  shrouds  agin,  we  sighted  the  Marquesas  ;  and,  bein' 
near  about  out  o'  water,  the  cap'en  laid  his  course  for 
the  nearest  land,  and  by  daybreak  of  the  second  day 
we  lay  to  in  a  small  harbor  on  the  south  side  of  an 
island  where  ships  wa'n't  very  prompt  to  go  commonly. 
But  old  Twist  didn't  care  £or  cannibals  nor  wild  beasts 
when  they  stood  in  his  way  ;  and  there  wasn't  but  half 
a  cask  of  water  aboard,  and  that  a  hog  wouldn't  'a' 
drank,  only  for  the  name  on't.  So  we  pulled  ashore 
after  some,  and,  findin'  a  spring  near  by,  was  takin'  it 
out,  hand  over  hand,  as  fast  as  we  could  bale  it  up, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  the  mate  see  a  bunch  of  feathers 
over  a  little  bush  near  by,  and  yelled  out  to  run  for  our 
lives,  the  savages  was  come. 

' '  Now  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  run  away  from  the 
ship  that  very  day  ;  and,  all  the  while  I'd  been  baling 
the  water  up,  I  had  been  tryin'  to  lay  my  course  so  as 
to  get  quit  of  the  boat's  crew,  and  be  off.  But  natur' 
is  stronger  than  a  man  thinks.  When  I  heerd  the  mate 
sing  out,  and  see  the  men  begin  to  run,  I  turned  and 
run  too,  full  speed,  down  to  the  shore ;  but  my  foot 
caught-  in  some  root  or  hole,  I  fell  flat  down,  and, 
hittin'  my  head  ag'inst  a  stone  ijpar  by,  I  lay  as  good 
as  dead  ;  and,  when  I  come  to,  the  boat  was  gone,  and 


KBEN   JACKSON.  17 

the  ship  makin'  all  sail  out  of  harbor,  aud  a  crew  of 
wild  Indian  women  were  a-lookin'  at  rne  as  I've  seen 
a  set  of  Simslmry  women-folks  look  at  a  baboon  in  a 
caravan  ;  but  they  treated  me  better. 

"  Findin'  I  was  helpless, — for  I'd  sprained  my 
ankle  in  the  fall,  —  four  of  'em  picked  me  up,  and  car 
ried  me  awa}^  to  a  hut,  and  tended  me  like  a  baby. 
And  when  the  men,  who'd  come  over  to  that  side  of  the 
island  'long  with  'em,  and  gone  a-fishin',  come  back, 
I  was  safe  enough  ;  for  women  are  women  all  the  world 
over,  —  soft-hearted,  kindly  creturs,  that  like  any  thing 
that's  in  trouble,  'specially  if  they  can  give  it  a  lift 
out  on't.  So  I  was  nursed  and  fed,  and  finally  taken 
over  the  ridge  of  rocks  that  run  acrost  the  island,  to 
their  town  of  bamboo  huts  ;  and  now  begun  to  look 
about  me,  for  here  I  was,  stranded,  as  one  may  say. 
out  o'  sight  o'  land. 

"  Ships  didn't  never  touch  there,  I  knew  by  their 
ways, — their  wonderin%  and  takin'  sights  at  me.  As 
for  Cap'en  Twist,  he  wouldn't  come  back  for  his  own 
father,  unless  he  was  short  o'  hands  for  whalin'.  I 
was  in  for  life,  no  doubt  on't ;  and  I'd  better  look  at 
the  fairweather  side  of  the  thing.  The  island  was  as 
pretty  a  bit  of  land  as  ever  lay  betwixt  sea  and  sky ; 
full  of  tall  cocoanut-palms,  with  broad  feathery  tops, 
and  bunches  of  brown  nuts ;  bananas  hung  in  yellow 
clumps,  ready  to  drop  off  at  a  touch ;  and  big  bread 
fruit  trees  stood  about  everywhere,  lookin'  as  though  a 
punkin-vine  had  climbed  up  into  'em,  and  hung  half- 
ripe  punkins  off  of  every  bough ;  beside  lots  of  other 
trees  that  the  natives  set  great  store  by,  and  live  on 
the  fruit  of  'em  ;  and,  flyin'  through  all,  such  pretty 
birds  as  you  never  see  except  in  them  parts  ;  but  one 


18  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

brown  thrasher'd  beat  the  whole  on  'em  singing'.  Fact 
is,  they  run  to  feathers  :  they  don't  sing  none. 

' '  It  was  as  sightly  a  country  as  ever  Adam  and  Eve 
had  to  themselves,  but  it  wa'n't  home.  Howsomever, 
after  a  while  the  savages  took  to  me  mightily.  I  was 
allers  handy  with  tools,  and  by  good  luck  I'd  come  off 
with  two  jack-knives  and  a  loose  awl  in  my  jacket- 
pocket :  so  I  could  beat  'em  all  at  whittlin'.  And  I 
made  figgers,  on  their  bows  an'  pipe-stems,  of  things 
they  never  see, — roosters  and  horses,  Miss  Buel's  old 
sleigh,  and  the  Albany  stage,  driver'n'  all,  and  our 
yoke  of  oxen  a-ploughin', — till  nothin'  would  serve 
them  but  I  should  have  a  house  o'  my  own,  and  be 
married  to  their  king's  daughter.  So  I  did. 

"Well,  doctor,  you  kinder  wonder  I  forgot  Hetty 
Buel.  I  didn't  forget  her,  but  I  knew'  she  wa'n't  to 
be  had  anyhow.  I  thought  I  was  in  for  life ;  and 
Wailua  was  the  prettiest  little  craft  that  ever  you  set 
eyes  on,  —  as  straight  as  a  spar,  and  as  kindly  as  a 
Christian.  And,  besides,  I  had  to,  or  I'd  have  been 
killed,  and  broiled,  and  eaten,  whether  or  no.  And 
then  in  that  'are  latitude  it  a'n't  just  the  way  'tis  here  : 
you  don't  work ;  you  get  easy  and  lazy  and  sleep}7 ; 
somethin'  in  the  air  kind  of  hushes  you  up ;  it  makes 
you  sweat  to  think,  and  you're  too  hazy  to  if  it  didn't ; 
and  you  don't  care  for  nothing  much  but  food  and 
drink.  I  hadn't  no  spunk  left :  so  I  married  her  after 
their  fashion,  and  I  liked  her  well  enough  ;  and  she  was 
my  wife,  after  all. 

"I  tell  ye,  doctor,  it  goes  a  gret  way  with  men- 
folks  to  think  any  thing's  their'n,  and  nobody  else's. 
But,  when  I  married  her,  I  took  the  chain  with  Hetty 
Buel's  ring  off  my  neck,  and  put  'em  in  a  shell,  and 


EBEN   JACKSON.  19 

buried  the  shell  under  my  doorway.  I  couldn't  have 
Wailua  touch  that. 

"  So  there  I  lived  fifteen  long  year,  as  it  might  be, 
in  a  kind  of  a  curus  dream,  doin'  nothin'  much,  only  that 
when  I  got  to  know  the  tongue  them  savages  spoke, 
little  by  little  I  got  pretty  much  the  steerin'  o'  the  hull 
crew,  till  by-'n'-by  some  of  'em  got  jealous,  and 
plotted  and  planned  to  kill  me,  because  the  king,  Wai 
lua' s  father,  was  gettin'  old,  and  they  thought  I 
wanted  to  be  king  when  he  died,  and  they  couldn't 
stan'  that  noway. 

' '  Somehow  or  other  Wailua  got  word  of  what  was 
goin'  on  ;  and  one  night  she  woke  me  out  of  sleep, 
an'  told  me  I  must  run  for't,  and  she  would  hide  me 
safe  till  tilings  took  a  turn.  So  I  scratched  up  the 
shell  with  Hetty's  ring  in't ;  and  afore  morning  I  was 
over  t'other  side  of  the  island,  in  a  kind  of  a  cave 
overlookin'  the  sea,  near  by  to  a  grove  of  bananas  and 
mammee-apples,  and  not  fur  from  the  harbor  where  I'd 
landed,  and  safe  enough,  for  nobody  but  Wailua  knew 
the  way  to't. 

"Well,  the  sixth  day  I  sot  in  the  porthole  of  that 
cave  I  see  a  sail  in  the  offing.  I  declare  I  thought  I 
should  'a'  choked.  I  catched  off  my  tappa-cloth,  and 
h'isted  it  on  a  pole  ;  but  the  ship  kep'  on  stiddy  out  to 
sea.  My  heart  beat  up  to  my  eyes  ;  but  I  held  on 
ag'iust  hope,  and  I  declare  I  prayed.  Words  come  to 
me  that  I  hadn't  said  since  I  was  a  boy  to  Simsbu^, 
and  the  Lord  he  heerd ;  for,  as  true  as  the  compass, 
that  ship  lay  to,  tacked,  put  in  for  the  island,  and  afore 
night  I  was  aboard  of  'The  Lysander,'  a  Salem 
whaler,  with  my  mouth  full  of  grog  and  ship-biscuit, 
and  my  body  in  civilized  toggery.  I  own  I  felt  queer 


20  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

to  go  away  so,  and  leave  Wailua ;  but  I  knew  'twas 
gettin'  her  out  of  danger,  for  the  old  king  was  just 
a-goin'  to  die,  and,  if  ever  I'd  have  gone  back,  we 
should  both  have  been  murdered.  Besides,  we  didn't 
always  agree  :  she  had  to  walk  straighter  than  her  wild 
natur'  agreed  with,  because  she  was  my  wife ;  and  we 
hadn't  no  children  to  hold  us  together  ;  and  I  couldn't 
a'  taken  her  aboard  of  the  whaler  if  she'd  wanted  to 
go.  I  guess  it  was  best :  anyhow,  so  it  was. 

"But  this  wasn't  to  be  the  end  of  my  v'yagin'. 
'  The  Lysander '  foundered  just  off  Valparaiso ;  and, 
though  all  hands  was  saved  in  the  boats,  when  we  got 
to  port  there  wasn't  no  craft  there  bound  any  nearer 
homeward  than  an  English  merchant-ship  for  Liver 
pool  by  way  of  Madeira.  So  I  worked  a  passage  to 
Funchal ;  and  there  I  got  aboard  of  a  Southampton 
steamer  bound  for  Cuba,  that  put  in  for  coal.  But, 
when  I  come  to  Havana,  I  was  nigh  about  tuckered  out ; 
for  goin'  round  the  Horn  in  '  The  Lemon,'  — that  'are 
English  ship,  — I'd  ben  on  duty  in  all  sorts  o'  weather  ; 
and  I'd  lived  lazy  and  warm  so  long  I  expect  it  was  too 
tough  for  me,  and  I  was  pestered  with  a  hard  cough, 
and  spit  blood,  so't  I  was  laid  up  a  long  spell  in  the 
hospital  at  Havana!  And  there  I  kep'  a-thinkin'  over 
Hetty's  Bible ;  and  I  b'lieve  I  studied  that  'are  chart 
till  I  found  out  the  way  to  port,  and  made  up  my  log 
all  square  for  the  owner ;  for  .1  knowed  well  enough 
where  I  was  bound,  but  I  did  hanker  to  get  home  to 
Simsbury  afore  shovin'  off. 

"Well,  finally  there  come  into  the  harbor  a  Mystic 
ship  that  was  a-goin'  down  the  Gulf  for  a  New- York 
owner.  I'd  known  Seth  Crane,  the  cap'en  of  her,  away 
back  in  old  Simsbury  times.  He  was  an  Avon  boy ; 


EBEN   JACKSON.  21 

and  when  I  sighted  that  vessel's  name,  as  I  was  crawl- 
in'  along  the  quay  one  day,  and,  seem'  she  was  Con 
necticut-built,  boarded  her,  and  see  Seth,  I  was  old  fool 
enough  to  cry  right  out,  I  was  so  shaky.  And  Seth  — 
he  was  about  as  scart  as  ef  he'd  seen  the  dead,  havin' 
heerd  up  to  Avon,  fifteen  year  ago  nearly,  that  "The 
Lowisy  Miles"  had  been  run  down  off  the  Sandwich 
Islands  by  a  British  man-of-war,  and  all  hands  lost 
exceptin'  one  o'  the  boys.  However,  he  come  to  his 
bearin's  after  a  while,  and  told  me  about  our  folks,  and 
how't  Hetty  Buel  wasn't  married,  but  keepin'  deestrict 
school,  and  her  old  grandmother  alive  yet. 

"Well,  I  kinder  heartened  up,  and  agreed  to  take 
passage  with  Seth.  —  Good  Lord,  doctor !  what's 
that?" 

A  peculiar  and  oppressive  stillness  had  settled  down 
on  every  thing  in  and  out  of  the  hospital  while  Jackson 
was  going  on  with  his  story.  I  noticed  it  only  as  the 
hush  of  a  tropic  midnight ;  but  as  he  spoke  I  heard, 
apparently  out  on  the  prairie,  a  heavy  jarring  sound, 
like  repeated  blows,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  the 
building. 

Jackson  sprung  upright  on  his  pillows.  The  hectic 
passed  from  either  gaunt  and  sallow  cheek,  leaving  the 
red-and-blue  tattoo  marks  visible  in  most  ghastly  dis 
tinctness  ;  while  the  sweat  poured  in  drops  down  his 
hollow  temples. 

The  noise  drew  still  nearer.  All  the  patients  in  the 
ward  awoke,  and  quitted  their  beds  hastily.  The  noise 
was  at  hand.  Blows  of  great  violence  and  power, 
and  a  certain  malign  rapidity,  shook  the  walls  from  one 
end  of  the  hospital  to  the  other,  — blow  upon  blow, — 
like  the  fierce  attacks  of  a  catapult,  only  with  no  like 


22  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

result.  The  nurse,  a  German  Catholic,  fell  on  his 
knees,  and  told  his  beads,  glancing  over  his  shoulder  in 
undisguised  horror ;  the  patients  cowered  together, 
groaning  and  praying ;  and  I  could  hear  the  stir  and 
confusion  in  the  ward  below.  In  less  than  a  minute's 
space  the  singular  sound  passed  through  the  house,  and 
in  hollow,  jarring  echoes  died  out  toward  the  bay. 

I  looked  at  Eben.  His  jaw  had  fallen ;  his  hands 
were  rigid,  and  locked  together ;  his  eyes  were  rolled 
upward,  fixed  and  glassy.  A  stream  of  scarlet  blood 
trickled  over  his  gray  beard  from  the  corner  of  his 
mouth.  He  was  dead.  As  I  laid  him  back  on  the 
pillow,  and  turned  to  restore  some  quiet  to  the  ward, 
a  Norther  came  sweeping  down  the  Gulf  like  a  rush  of 
mad  spirits,  tore  up  the  white  crests  of  the  sea  and 
flung  them  on  the  beach  in  thundering  surf,  burst 
through  the  heavy  fog  that  had  trailed  upon  the  moon's 
track  and  smothered  the  island  in  its  soft,  pestilent 
brooding,  and  in  one  mighty  pouring-out  of  cold,  pure 
ether  changed  earth  and  sky  from  torrid  to  temperate 
zone. 

Vainly  did  I  endeavor  to  calm  the  terror  of  my 
patients,  excited  still  more  by  the  elemental  uproar 
without ;  vainly  did  I  harangue  them,  in  the  plainest 
terms  to  which  science  is  reducible,  on  atmospheric 
vibrations,  acoustics,  reverberations,  and  volcanic  agen 
cies  :  they  insisted  on  some  supernatural  power  having 
produced  the  recent  fearful  sounds.  Neither  common 
nor  uncommon  sense  could  prevail  with  them :  and 
when  they  discovered,  by  the  appearance  of  the  extra 
nurse  I  had  sent  for  to  perform  the  last  offices  for 
Jackson,  that  he  was  dead,  a  renewed  and  irrepressible 
horror  attacked  them  ;  and  it  was  broad  day  before 


EBEN   JACKSON.  23 

composure  or  stillness  was  regained  in  any  part  of  the 
building  except  my  own  rooms,  to  which  I  betook 
myself  as  soon  as  possible,  and  slept  till  sunrise,  too 
soundly  for  any  mystical  visitation  whatever  to  have 
disturbed  my  rest. 

The  next  day,  in  spite  of  the  brief  influence  of  the 
Norther,  the  first  case  of  yellow-fever  showed  itself 
in  the  hospital :  before  night  seven  had  sickened,  and 
one,  already  reduced  by  chronic  disease,  died. 

I  had  hoped  to  bury  Jackson  decently,  in  the  ceme 
tery  of  the  city,  where  his  vexed  mortality  might  rest 
in  peace  under  the  oleanders  and  china-trees,  shut  in 
by  the  hedge  of  Cherokee  roses  that  guards  the  en 
closure  from  the  prairie,  a  living  wall  of  glassy  green, 
strewn  with  ivory-white  buds  and  blossoms,  fair  and 
pure ;  but,  on  applying  for  a  burial-spot,  the  city  au 
thorities,  panic-stricken  cowards  that  they  were,  denied 
me  the  privilege  even  of  a  prairie  grave  outside  the 
cemetery  hedge  for  the  poor  fellow.  In  vain  did  I 
represent  that  he  had  died  of  lingering  disease,  and 
that  nowise  contagious  :  nothing  moved  them.  It  was 
enough  that  there  was  yellow-fever  in  the  ward  where 
he  died.  I  was  forthwith  strictly  ordered  to  have  all 
the  dead  from  the  hospital  buried  on  the  sand-flats  at 
the  east  end  of  the  island. 

What  a  place  that  is  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  de 
scribe,  —  wide  and  dreary  levels  of  sand  some  four 
or  five  feet  lower  than  the  town,  and  flooded  by  high 
tides,  the  only  vegetation  a  scanty,  dingy  gray,  brittle, 
crackling  growth,  —  bitter  sandworts,  and  the  like, 
over  and  through  which  the  abominable  tawny  sand- 
crabs  are  constantly  executing  diabolic  waltzes  on  the 
tips  of  their  eight  legs,  vanishing  into  the  ground  like 


24  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

imps  as  you  approach.  Curlews  start  from  behind  the 
loose  drifts  of  sand,  and  float  away  with  heart-broken 
cries  seaward ;  little  sandpipers  twitter  plaintively, 
running  through  the  weeds ;  and  great,  sulky  gray 
cranes  droop  their  motionless  heads  over  the  still  salt 
pools  along  the  shore. 

To  this  blank  desolation  I  was  forced  to  carry  poor 
Jackson's  body,  with  that  of  the  fever-patient,  just  at 
sunset.  As  the  Dutchman  who  officiated  as  hearse, 
sexton,  bearer,  and  procession  stuck  his  spade  into 
the  ground,  and  withdrew  it  full  of  crumbling  shells 
and  fine  sand,  the  hole  it  left  filled  with  bitter  black 
ooze.  There,  sunk  in  the  ooze,  covered  with  the  shift 
ing  sand,  bewailed  by  the  wild  cries  of  sea-birds,  note 
less  and  alone,  I  left  Eben  Jackson,  and  returned  to 
the  mass  of  pestilence  and  wretchedness  within  the 
hospital  walls. 

In  the  spring  I  reached  home  safely.  None  but  the 
resident  on  a  Southern  sandbank  can  fully  appreciate 
the  verdure  and  bloom  of  the  North.  The  great  elms 
of  my  native  town  were  full  of  tender  buds,  like  a 
clinging  mist  in  their  graceful  branches  ;  earlier  trees 
were  decked  with  little  leaves,  deep- creased,  and  sil 
very  with  down ;  the  wide  river  in  a  fluent  track  of 
metallic  lustre  weltered  through  green  meadows  that 
on  either  hand  stretched  far  and  wide  ;  the  rolling  land 
beyond  was  spread  out  in  pastures,  where  the  cattle 
luxuriated  after  the  winter's  stalling ;  and  on  many  a 
slope  and  plain  the  patient  farmer  turned  up  his  heavy 
sods  and  clay  to  moulder  in  sun  and  air  for  seedtime 
and  harvest ;  and  the  beautiful  valley  that  met  the 
horizon  on  the  north  and  south  rolled  away  eastward 
and  westward  to  a  low  blue  range,  of  hills  that  guarded 


EBEN   JACKSON.  "25 

it  with  granite  walls,  and  bristling  spears  of  hemlock 
and  pine. 

This  is  not  my  story  ;  and,  if  it  were,  I  do  not  know 
that  I  should  detail  my  home-coming.  It  is  enough  to 
say,  that  I  came,  after  a  five-years'  absence,  and  found 
all  that  I  had  left  nearly  as  I  had  left  it.  How  few 
can  say  as  much  ! 

Various  duties  and  some  business  arrangements  kept 
me  at  work  for  six  or  seven  weeks,  and  it  was  June 
before  I  could  fulfil  my  promise  to  Eben  Jackson.  I 
took  the  venerable  old  horse  and  chaise  that  had  car 
ried  my  father  on  his  rounds  for  years,  and  made  the 
best  of  my  way  out  toward  Simsbury.  I  was  alone, 
of  course  :  even  cousin  Lizzy,  charming  as  five  years 
had  made  the  little  girl  of  thirteen  whom  I  had  left 
behind  on  quitting  home,  was  not  invited  to  share  my 
drive :  there  was  something  too  serious  in  the  errand 
to  endure  the  presence  of  a  gay  young  lady.  But  I 
was  not  lonely.  The  drive  up  Talcott  Mountain,  under 
the  rude  portcullis  of  the  toll-gate,  through  fragrant 
woods,  by  trickling  brooks,  past  huge  bowlders  that 
scarce  a  wild  vine  dare  cling  to  with  its  feeble,  deli 
cate  tendrils,  is  all  exquisite,  and  full  of  living  repose  ; 
and  turning  to  descend  the  mountain,  just  where  a 
brook  drops  headlong  with  clattering  leap  into  a  steep 
black  ravine,  and  comes  out  over  a  tiny  green  meadow, 
sliding  past  great  granite  rocks,  and  bending  the  grass- 
blades  to  a  shining  track,  you  see  suddenly  at  your  feet 
the  beautiful  mountain  valley  of  the  Farmington  River, 
trending  away  in  hill  after  hill,  rough  granite  ledges 
crowned  with  cedar  and  pine,  deep  ravines  full  of 
heaped  rocks,  and  here  and  there  the  formal  white 
rows  of  a  manufacturing  village,  where  Kiihleborn  is 


26  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

captured,  and  forced  to  turn  water-wheels,  and  Undine 
picks  cotton,  or  grinds  hardware,  dammed  into  utility. 

Into  this  valley  I  plunged  ;  and,  inquiring  my  way  of 
many  a  prim  farmer's  wife  and  white-headed  school 
boy,  I  edged  my  way  northward  under  the  mountain 
side,  and  just  before  noon  found  myself  beneath  the 
"great  ellum,"  where,  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  Eben 
Jackson  and  Hetty  Buel  had  said  ' '  good-by. ' ' 

I  tied  my  horse  to  the  fence,  and  walked  up  the 
worn  footpath  to  the  door.  Apparently  no  one  was  at 
home.  Under  this  impression  I  knocked  vehemently, 
by  way  of  making  sure  ;  and  a  weak,  cracked  voice  at 
length  answered,  "  Come  in  !  "  There,  by  the  window, 
—  perhaps  the  same  where  she  sat  so  long  before,  — 
crouched  in  an  old  chair  covered  with  calico,  her  bent 
fingers  striving  with  mechanical  motion  to  knit  a  coarse 
stocking,  sat  old  Mrs.  Buel.  Age  had  worn  to  the 
extreme  of  attenuation  a  face  that  must  always  have 
been  hard-featured ;  and  a  few  locks  of  snow-white 
hair  straying  from  under  the  bandanna  handkerchief 
of  bright  red  and  orange  that  was  tied  over  her  cap 
and  under  her  chin,  added  to  the  old-world  expression 
of  her  whole  figure.  She  was  very  deaf :  scarcely 
could  I  make  her  comprehend  that  I  wanted  to  see  her 
grand-daughter ;  at  last  she  understood,  and  asked  me 
to  sit  down  till  Hetty  should  come  from  school ;  and 
before  long,  a  tall,  thin  figure  opened  the  gate,  and 
came  slowly  up  the  path. 

I  had  a  good  opportunity  to  observe  the  constant, 
dutiful,  self-denying  Yankee  girl,  —  girl  no  longer,  now 
that  twenty  years  of  unrewarded  patience  had  lined 
her  face  with  unmistakable  graving.  But  I  could  not 
agree  with  Eben's  statement  that  she  was  not  pretty. 


EBEN   JACKSON.  27 

She  must  have  been  so  in  her  youth :  even  now  there 
was  beauty  in  her  deep-set  and  heavily  fringed  dark 
eyes,  soft,  tender,  and  serious,  and  in  the  noble  and 
pensive  Greek  outline  of  the  brow  and  nose.  Her  upper 
lip  and  chin  were  too  long  to  agree  well  with  her  little 
classic  head  ;  but  they  gave  a  certain  just  and  pure  ex 
pression  to  the  whole  face,  and  to  the  large,  thin-lipped 
mouth,  flexible  yet  firm  in  its  lines.  It  is  true  her  hair 
was  neither  abundant,  nor  wanting  in  gleaming  threads 
of  gray ;  her  skin  was  freckled,  sallow,  and  devoid  of 
varying  tint  or  freshness ;  her  figure  angular  and 
spare  ;  her  hands  red  with  hard  work ;  and  her  air  at 
once  sad  and  shy :  still  Hetty  Buel  was  a  very  lovely 
woman  in  my  eyes,  though  I  doubt  if  Lizzy  would 
have  thought  so. 

I  hardly  knew  how  to  approach  the  painful  errand  I 
had  come  on ;  and,  with  true  masculine  awkwardness, 
I  cut  the  matter  short  by  drawing  out  from  my  pocket- 
book  the  Panama  chain  and  ring,  and  placing  them  in 
her  hands.  Well  as  I  thought  I  knew  the  New-Eng 
land  character,  I  was  not  prepared  for  so  quiet  a 
reception  of  this  token  as  she  gave  it.  With  a  steady 
hand  she  untwisted  the  wire  fastening  of  the  chain, 
slipped  the  ring  off,  and,  bending  her  head,  placed  it 
reverently  on  the  ring-finger  of  her  left  hand,  —  brief 
but  potent  ceremony,  and  over  without  preface  or 
comment,  but  over  for  all  time. 

Still  holding  the  chain,  she  offered  me  a  chair,  and 
sat  down  herself,  a  little  paler,  a  little  more  grave, 
than  on  entering. 

4 '  Will  you  tell  me  how  and  where  he  died,  sir  ?  " 
said  she,  evidently  having  long  considered  the  fact 
in  her  heart  as  a  fact ;  probably  having  heard  Seth 
Crane's  story  of  the  loss  of  "  The  Louisa  Miles." 


28  -  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

I  detailed  my  patient's  tale  as  briefly  and  sympathet 
ically  as  I  knew  how.  The  episode  of  Wailua  caused 
a  little  flushing  of  lip  and  cheek,  a  little  twisting  of  the 
ring,  as  if  it  were  not  to  be  worn  after  all ;  but  as  I 
told  of  his  sacred  care  of  the  trinket  for  its  giver's 
sake,  and  the  not  unwilling  forsaking  of  that  island 
wife,  the  restless  motion  passed  away,  and  she  listened 
quietly  to  the  end,  only  once  lifting  her  left  hand  to 
her  lips,  and  resting  her  head  on  it  for  a  moment,  as  I 
detailed  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  after  supply 
ing  what  was  wanting  in  his  own  story,  from  the  time 
of  his  taking  passage  in  Crane's  ship  to  their  touch 
ing  at  the  island  expressly  to  leave  him  in  the  hospital 
when  a  violent  hemorrhage  had  disabled  him  from 
further  voyaging. 

I  was  about  to  tell  her  I  had  seen  him  decently 
buried,  of  course  omitting  descriptions  of  the  how  and 
where,  when  the  grandmother,  who  had  been  watching 
us  with  the  impatient  querulousness  of  age*,  hobbled 
across  the  room  to  ask  "what  that  'are  man  was 
a-talkin'  about." 

Briefly  and  calmly,  in  the  key  long  use  had  suited  to 
her  infirmity,  Hetty  detailed  the  chief  points  of  my 
story. 

"Dew  tell!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "  Eben 
Jackson  a' n't  dead  on  dryland,  is  he?  Left  means, 
eh?" 

I  walked  away  to  the  door,  biting  my  lip.  Hetty, 
for  once,  reddened  to  the  brow,  but  replaced  her 
charge  in  the  chair,  and  followed  me  to  the  gate. 

"Good-day,  sir,"  said  she,  offering  me  her  hand, 
and  then,  slightly  hesitating,  "Grandmother  is  very 
old.  I  thank  you,  sir.  I  thank  you  kindly." 


EBEN  JACKSON.  29 

As  she  turned,  and  went  toward  the  house,  I  saw  the 
glitter  of  the  Panama  chain  about  her  thin  and  sallow 
throat,  and,  by  the  motion  of  her  hands,  that  she  was 
retwisting  the  same  wire  fastening  that  Eben  Jackson 
had  manufactured  for  it. 

Five  years  after,  last  June,  I  went  to  Simsbury  with 
a  gay  picnic  party.  This  time  Lizzy  was  with  me : 
indeed,  she  generally  is  now. 

I  detached  myself  from  the  rest,  after  we  were  fairly 
arranged  for  the  day,  and  wandered  away  alone  to 
"MissBuel's." 

The  house  was  closed,  the  path  grassy,  a  sweetbrier- 
bush  had  blown  across  the  door,  and  was  gay  with 
blossoms :  all  was  still,  dusty,  desolate.  I  could  not 
be  satisfied  with  this.  The  meeting-house  was  as  near 
as  any  neighbor's,  and  the  graveyard  would  ask  me  no 
curious  questions.  I  entered  it  doubting ;  but  there, 
"on  the slee ward  side,"  near  to  the  grave  of  "  Bethia 
Jackson,  wife  of  John  Eben  Jackson,"  were  two  new 
stones,  one  dated  but  a  year  later  than  the  other,  re 
cording  the  deaths  of  "Temperance  Buel  aged  96," 
and  "  Hester  Buel  aged  44." 


MISS   LUCINDA. 

BUT  that  Solomon  is  out  of  fashion,  I  should  quote 
him  here  and  now,  to  the  effect  that  there  is  a  time  for 
all  things;  but  Solomon  is  obsolete,  and  never  —  no, 
never — will  I  dare  to  quote  a  dead  language,  "for 
raisons  I  have,"  as  the  exiles  of  Erin  say.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  Solomon  and  Horace,  I  may  express  my  own 
less  concise  opinion,  that  even  in  hard  times,  and  dull 
times,  and  war  times,  there  is  yet  a  little  time  to  laugh, 
a  brief  hour  to  smile  and  love  and  pity  ;  just  as  through 
this  dreary  easterly  storm,  bringing  clouds  and  rain, 
sobbing  against  casement  and  door  with  the  inarticulate 
wail  of  tempests,  there  comes  now  and  then  the  soft 
shine  of  a  sun  behind  it  all,  a  fleeting  glitter,  an  eva 
nescent  aspect  of  what  has  been. 

But  if  I  apologize  for  a  story  that  is  nowise  tragic, 
nor  fitted  to  "the  fashion  of  these  times,"  possibly 
somebody  will  say  at  its  end  that  I  should  also  have 
apologized  for  its  subject,  since  it  is  as  easy  for  an 
author  to  treat  his  readers  to  high  themes  as  vulgar 
ones,  and  velvet  can  be  thrown  into  a  portrait  as 
cheaply  as  calico ;  but  of  this  apology  I  wash  my 
hands.  I  believe  nothing  in  place  or  circumstance 
makes  romance.  I  have  the  same  quick  sympathy 
for  Biddy's  sorrows  with  Patrick  that  I  have  for  the 
Empress  of  France  and  her  august  but  rather  grim  lord 
30 


MISS   LUCINDA.  31 

and  master.  I  think  words  are  often  no  harder  to 
bear  than  ' '  a  blue  bating  ; ' '  and  I  have  a  reverence  for 
poor  old  maids  as  great  as  for  the  nine  Muses.  Com 
monplace  people  are  only  commonplace  from  character, 
and  no  position  affects  that.  So  forgive  me  once  more, 
patient  reader,  if  I  offer  to  you  no  tragedy  in  high  life, 
no  sentimental  history  of  fashion  and  wealth,  but  only 
a  little  story  about  a  woman  who  could  not  be  a 
heroine. 

Miss  Lucinda  Jane  Ann  Manners  was  a  lady  of 
unknown  age,  who  lived  in  a  place  I  call  Dalton,  in  a 
State  of  these  Disuniting  States,  which  I  do  not  men 
tion  for  good  cause.  I  have  already  had  so  many 
unconscious  personalities  visited  on  my  devoted  head, 
that,  but  for  lucidity,  I  should  never  mention  persons 
or  places,  inconvenient  as  it  would  be.  However,  Miss 
Lucinda  did  live,  and  lived  by  the  aid  of  "means," 
which  in  the  vernacular  is  money.  Not  a  great  deal, 
it  is  true,  —  five  thousand  dollars  at  lawful  interest, 
and  a  little  wooden  house,  do  not  imply  many  luxuries 
even  to  a  single  woman ;  and  it  is  also  true  that 
a  little  fine  sewing  taken  in  helped  Miss  Manners  to 
provide  herself  with  a  few  small  indulgences  otherwise 
beyond  her  reach.  She  had  one  or  two  idiosyncra 
sies,  as  they  are  politely  called,  that  were  her  delight. 
Plenty  of  dish-towels  were  necessary  to  her  peace  of 
mind ;  without  five  pair  of  scissors  she  could  not  be 
happy ;  and  Tricopherous  was  essential  to  her  well- 
being  :  indeed,  she  often  said  she  would  rather  give  up 
coffee  than  Tricopherous,  for  her  hair  was  black  and 
wiry  and  curly,  and  caps  she  abhorred  ;  so  that,  of  a 
winter's  day,  her  head  presented  the  most  irrelevant 
and  volatile  aspect,  each  particular  hair  taking  a  twist 


32  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

on  its  own  responsibility,  and  improvising  a  wild  halo 
about  her  unsaintly  face,  unless  subdued  into  propriety 
by  the  aforesaid  fluid. 

I  said  Miss  Lucinda's  face  was  unsaintly ;  I  mean 
unlike  ancient  saints  as  depicted  by  contemporary  art 
ists  :  modern  and  private  saints  are  after  another  fash 
ion.  I  met  one  yesterday,  whose  green  eyes,  great 
nose,  thick  lips,  and  sallow  wrinkles,  under  a  bonnet 
of  fifteen  years'  standing,  further  clothed  upon  by  a 
scant  merino  cloak  and  cat-skin  tippet,  would  have  cut 
a  sorry  figure  in  the  gallery  of  the  Vatican  or  the 
Louvre,  and  put  the  tranquil  Madonna  of  San  Sisto 
into  a  state  of  stunning  antithesis.  But  if  St.  Agnes 
or  St.  Catharine  was  half  as  good  as  my  saint,  I  am 
glad  of  it. 

No,  there  was  nothing  sublime  and  dolorous  about 
Miss  Manners.  Her  face  was  round,  cheery,  and 
slightly  puckered,  with  two  little  black  eyes  sparkling 
and  shining  under  dark  brows,  a  nose  she  unblushingly 
called  pug,  and  a  big  mouth,  with  eminently  white  and 
regular  teeth,  which  she  said  were  such  a  comfort,  for 
they  never  ached,  and  never  would  to  the  end  of  time. 
Add  to  this  physiognomy  a  small  and  rather  spare 
figure,  dressed  in  the  cleanest  of  calicoes,  always  made 
in  one  style,  and  rigidly  scorning  hoops,  without  a 
symptom  of  a  collar,  in  whose  place  (or  it  may  be  over 
which)  she  wore  a  white  cambric  handkerchief  knotted 
about  her  throat,  and  the  two  ends  brought  into  sub 
jection  by  means  of  a  little  angular-headed  gold  pin, 
her  sole  ornament,  and  a  relic  of  her  old  father's  clays 
of  widowhood,  when  buttons  were  precarious  tenures. 
So  much  for  her  aspect.  Her  character  was  even  more 
quaint. 


MISS   LUCINDA.  33 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  one  of  the 
old  school,  the  last  whose  breeches  and  knee-buckles 
adorned  the  profession,  who  never  "outlived  his  use 
fulness,"  nor  lost  his  godly  simplicity.  Parson  Man 
ners  held  rule  over  an  obscure  and  quiet  village  in  the 
wilds  of  Vermont,  where  hard-handed  farmers  wres 
tled  with  rocks  and  forests  for  their  daily  bread,  and 
looked  forward  to  heaven  as  a  land  of  green  pastures 
and  still  waters,  where  agriculture  should  be  a  pastime, 
and  winter  impossible.  Heavy  freshets  from  the  moun 
tains,  that  swelled  their  rushing  brooks  into  annual 
torrents,  and  snow-drifts  that  covered  five-rail  fences 
a  foot  above  the  posts,  and  blocked  up  the  turnpike- 
road  for  weeks,  caused  this  congregation  fully  to  ap 
preciate  Parson  Manners 's  favorite  hymns,  — 

"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight," 
and 

"  On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand." 

Indeed,  one  irreverent  but  "pretty  smart  feller,"  who 
lived  on  the  top  of  a  hill  known  as  Drift  Hill,  where 
certain  adventurous  farmers  dwelt  for  the  sake  of  its 
smooth  sheep-pastures,  was  heard  to  say,  after  a 
mighty  sermon  by  Parson  Manners  about  the  seven- 
times  heated  furnaces  of  judgment  reserved  for  the 
wicked,  that  "  parson  hadn't  better  try  to  skeer  Drift- 
Hillers  with  a  hot  place  :  'twouldn't  more'n  jest  warm 
'em  through  down  there,  arter  a  real  snappin'  winter." 
In  this  out-of-the-way  nook  was  Lucinda  Jane  Ann 
born  arid  bred.  Her  mother  was  like  her  in  many 
things,  —  just  such  a  cheery,  round-faced  little  body, 
but  with  no  more  mind  than  found  ample  scope  for 
itself  in  superintending  the  affairs  of  house  and  farm, 


34  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

and  vigorously  ' '  seeing  to  ' '  her  husband  and  child. 
So,  while  Mrs.  Manners  baked,  and  washed  and 
ironed,  and  sewed  and  knit,  and  set  the  sweetest 
example  of  quiet  goodness  and  industry  to  all  her 
flock,  without  knowing  she  could  set  an  example,  or 
be  followed  as  one,  the  parson  amused  himself,  be 
tween  sermons  of  powerful  doctrine  and  parochial 
duties  of  a  more  human  interest,  with  educating  Lu- 
cinda,  whose  intellect  was  more  like  his  own  than  her 
mother's.  A  strange  training  it  was  for  a  young  girl, 
—  mathematics,  metaphysics,  Latin,  theology  of  the 
dryest  sort ;  and  after  an  utter  failure  at  Greek  and 
Hebrew,  though  she  had  toiled  patiently  through  seven 
books  of  the  "  JEneid,"  Parson  Manners  mildly  sniffed 
at  the  inferiority  of  the  female  mind,  and  betook  him 
self  to  teaching  her  French,  which  she  learned  rapidly, 
and  spoke  with  a  pure  American  accent,  perhaps  as 
pleasing  to  a  Parisian  ear  as  the  hiss  of  Piedmont  or 
the  gutturals  of  Switzerland.  Moreover,  the  minister 
had  been  brought  up  himself  in  the  most  scrupulous 
refinement  of  manner :  his  mother  was  a  widow,  the 
last  of  an  "  old  family ; ' '  and  her  dainty,  delicate 
observances  were  inbred,  as  it  were,  in  her  only  son. 
This  sort  of  elegance  is  perhaps  the  most  delicate  test 
of  training  and  descent,  and  all  these  things  Lucinda 
was  taught  from  the  grateful  recollection  of  a  son  who 
never  forgot  his  mother  through  all  the  solitary  labors 
and  studies  of  a  long  life.  So  it  came  to  pass,  that, 
after  her  mother  died,  Lucinda  grew  more  and  more 
like  her  father  ;  and,  as  she  became  a  woman,  these 
rare  refinements  separated  her  more  and  more  from 
those  about  her,  and  made  her  necessarily  solitary. 
As  for  marriage,  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing  never 


MISS   LUCINDA.  35 

crossed  her  mind :  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  parish 
who  did  not  offend  her  sense  of  propriety,  and  shock 
her  taste,  whenever  she  met  one ;  and  though  her 
warm,  kind  heart  made  her  a  blessing  to  the  poor  and 
sick,  her  mother  was  yet  bitterly  regretted  at  quiltings 
and  tea-drinkings,  where  she  had  been  so  "  sociable- 
like  " 

It  is  rather  unfortunate  for  such  a  position  as  Lu- 
ciuda's,  that,  as  deacon  S  to  well  one  day  remarked  to 
her  father,  ' '  Natur'  will  be  natur'  as  much  on  Drift 
Hill  as  down  to  Bosting  ; ' '  and  when  she  began  to  feel 
that  "  strong  necessity  of  loving,"  that  sooner  or  later 
assails  every  woman's  heart,  there  was  nothing  for  it 
to  overflow  on  when  her  father  had  taken  his  share. 
Now,  Lucinda  loved  the  parson  most  devoutly.  Ever 
since  the  time  when  she  could  just  remember  watching 
through  the  dusk  his  white  stockings  as  they  glim 
mered  across  the  road  to  evening  meeting,  and  looked 
like  a  supernatural  pair  of  legs  taking  a  walk  on 
their  own  responsibility,  twilight  concealing  the  black 
breeches  and  coat  from  mortal  view,  Lucinda  had 
regarded  her  father  with  a  certain  pleasing  awe.  His 
long  abstractions,  his  profound  knowledge,  his  grave, 
benign  manners,  and  the  thousand  daily  refinements 
of  speech  and  act  that  seemed  to  put  him  far  above 
the  sphere  of  his  pastorate,  —  all  these  things  inspired 
as  much  reverence  as  affection ;  and  when  she  wished 
with  all  her  heart  and  soul  she  had  a  sister  or  a  brother 
to  tend  and  kiss  and  pet,  it  never  once  occurred  to  her 
that  any  of  those  tender  familiarities  could  be  expended 
on  her  father.  She  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
caressing  any  of  the  goodly  angels,  whose  stout  legs, 
flowing  curls,  and  impossible  draperies,  sprawled  among 


36  SOMEBODY'S  NETGHBOTIS. 

the  pictures  in  the  big  Bible,  and  who  excited  her  won 
der  as  much  by  their  garments  as  their  turkey-wings 
and  brandishing  arms.  So  she  betook  herself  to  pets, 
and  growing  up  to  the  old  maidenhood  of  thirty-five 
before  her  father  fell  asleep,  was  by  that  time  the 
centre  of  a  little  world  of  her  own,  —  hens,  chickens, 
squirrels,  cats,  dogs,  lambs,  and  sundry  transient 
guests  of  stranger  kind ;  so  that  when  she  left  her 
old  home,  and  removed  to  the  little  house  in  Dalton 
that  had  been  left  her  by  her  mother's  aunt,  and  had 
found  her  small  property  safely  invested  by  means  of 
an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  Miss  Manners  made  one 
more  journey  to  Vermont  to  bring  in  safety  to  their 
future  dwelling  a  cat  and  three  kittens,  an  old  blind 
crow,  a  yellow  dog  of  the  true  cur  breed,  and  a  rooster 
with  three  hens,  "real  creepers,"  as  she  often  said, 
"  none  of  your  long-legged,  screaming  creatures." 

Lucinda  missed  her  father,  and  mourned  him  as 
constantly  and  faithfully  as  ever  a  daughter  could. 
But  her  temperament  was  more  cheerful  and  buoyant 
than  his  ;  and  when  once  she  was  quietly  settled  in  her 
little  house,  her  garden  and  her  pets  gave  her  such  full 
occupation  that  she  sometimes  blamed  herself  for  not 
feeling  more  lonely  and  unhappy.  A  little  longer  life, 
or  a  little  more  experience,  would  have  taught  her  bet 
ter  :  power  to  be  happy  is  the  last  thing  to  regret. 
Besides,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  be  cheerless  in 
that  sunny  little  house,  with  its  queer  old  furniture 
of  three-legged  tables,  high-backed  chairs,  and  chintz 
curtains,  where  red  mandarins  winked  at  blue  pagodas 
on  a  deep  yellow  ground,  and  birds  of  insane  orni 
thology  pecked  at  insects  that  never  could  have  been 
hatched,  or  perched  themselves  on  blossoms  totally 


MISS   LUCINDA.  37 

unknown  to  any  mortal  flora.  Old  engravings  of 
Bartolozzi,  from  the  stiff  elegances  of  Angelica  Kauf 
man  and  the  mythologies  of  Reynolds,  adorned  the 
shelf ;  and  the  carpet  in  the  parlor  was  of  veritable 
English  make,  older  than  Lucinda  herself,  but  as 
bright  in  its  fading,  and  as  firm  in  its  usefulness,  as 
she.  Up  stairs  the  tiny  chambers  were  decked  with 
spotless  white  dimity,  and  rush-bottomed  chairs  stood 
in  each  window,  with  a  strip  of  the  same  old  carpet 
by  either  bedside ;  and  in  the  kitchen  the  blue  settle 
that  had  stood  by  the  Vermont  fireside  now  defended 
this  lesser  hearth  from  the  draught  of  the  door,  and 
held  under  the  seat  thereof  sundry  ironing-sheets,  the 
blanket  belonging  to  them,  and  good  store  of  ticking 
and  worsted  holders.  A  half-gone  set  of  egg-shell 
china  stood  in  the  parlor-closet,  —  cups  and  teapot 
rimmed  with  brown  and  gold  in  a  square  pattern,  and  a 
shield  without  blazon  on  the  side  ;  the  quaint  tea-caddy 
with  its  stopper  stood  over  against  the  pursy  little  cream- 
pot  ;  and  the  three-legged  sugar-bowl  held  amid  its 
lumps  of  sparkling  sugar  the  oddest  sugar-tongs,  also 
a  family  relic ;  beside  this,  six  small  spoons,  three 
large  ones,  and  a  little  silver  porringer  comprised  all 
the  "plate"  belonging  to  Miss  Manners,  so  that  no 
fear  of  burglars  haunted  her,  and,  but  for  her  pets, 
she  would  have  led  a  life  of  profound  and  monotonous 
tranquillity.  But  this  was  a  vast  exception :  in  her 
life  her  pets  were  the  great  item  now ;  her  cat  had 
its  own  chair  in  the  parlor  and  kitchen  ;  her  do*g,  a 
rug  and  a  basket  never  to  be  meddled  with  by  man  or 
beast ;  her  old  crow,  its  special  nest  of  flannel  and 
cotton,  where  it  feebly  croaked  as  soon  as  Miss  Lu 
cinda,  began  to  spread  the  little  table  for  her  meals ; 


38  SOMEBODY  S   NEIGHBORS. 

and  the  three  kittens  had  their  own  playthings  and 
their  own  saucer  as  punctiliously  as  if  they  had  been 
children.  In  fact,  Miss  Manners  had  a  greater  share 
of  kindness  for  beasts  than  for  mankind.  A  strange 
compound  of  learning  and  unworldliness,  of  queer  sim 
plicity,  native  penetration,  and  common  sense,  she  had 
read  enough  books  to  despise  human  nature  as  it 
develops  itself  in  history  and  theology,  and  she  had  not 
known  enough  people  to  love  it  in  its  personal  devel 
opment.  She  had  a  general  idea  that  all  men  were 
liars,  and  that  she  must  be  on  her  guard  against  their 
propensity  to  cheat  and  annoy  a  lonely  and  helpless 
woman ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  in  her  good  father's 
over-anxiety  to  defend  her  from  the  snares  of  evil  men 
after  his  death,  his  teachings  had  given  her  opinion  this 
bias,  and  he  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  how  kindly  and 
how  true  he  had  found  many  of  his  own  parishioners, 
how  few  inclined  to  harm  or  pain  him.  So  Miss  Lu- 
cinda  made  her  entrance  into  life  at  Daltoii,  distrust 
ful,  but  not  suspicious  ;  and,  after  a  few  attempts  on 
the  part  of  the  women  who  were  her  neighbors  to  be 
friendly  or  intimate,  they  gave  her  up  as  impracticable  : 
not  because  she  was  impolite  or  unkind ;  they  did  not 
themselves  know  why  they  failed,  though  she  could 
have  told  them ;  for  old  maid  as  she  was,  poor  and 
plain  and  queer,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  asso 
ciate  familiarly  with  people  who  put  their  teaspoons 
into  the  sugar-bowl,  helped  themselves  with  their  own 
knives  and  forks,  gathered  up  bits  of  uneaten  butter 
and  returned  them  to  the  plate  for  next  time,  or  re 
placed  on  the  dish  pieces  of  cake  half  eaten,  or  cut  with 
the  knives  they  had  just  introduced  into  their  mouths. 
Miss  Lucinda's  code  of  minor  morals  would  have  for- 


MISS    LUCIXDA.  39 

bidden  her  to  drink  from  the  same  cup  with  a  queen, 
and  have  considered  a  pitchfork  as  suitable  as  a  knife 
to  eat  with ;  nor  would  she  have  offered  to  a  servant 
the  least  thing  she  had  touched  with  her  own  lips  or 
her  own  implements  of  eating ;  and  she  was  too  deli 
cately  bred  to  look  on  in  comfort  where  such  things 
were  practised.  Of  course  these  women  were  not 
ladies  ;  and,  though  many  of  them  had  kind  hearts 
and  warm  impulses  of  goodness,  yet  that  did  not  make 
up  to  her  for  their  social  misdemeanors  ;  and  she  drew 
herself  more  into  her  own  little  shell,  and  cared  more 
for  her  garden  and  her  chickens,  her  cats  and  her  dog, 
than  for  all  the  humanity  of  Dalton  put  together. 

Miss  Manners  held  her  flowers  next  dearest  to  her 
pets,  and  treated  them  accordingly.  Her  garden  was 
the  most  brilliant  bit  of  ground  possible.  It  was  big 
enough  to  hold  one  flourishing  peach-tree,  one  Siberian 
crab,  and  a  solitary  egg-plum  ;  while  under  these  fruit 
ful  boughs  bloomed  moss-roses  in  profusion,  of  the 
dear  old-fashioned  kind,  every  deep  pink  bud,  with  its 
clinging  garment  of  green,  breathing  out  the  richest 
odor.  Close  by,  the  real  white  rose,  which  fashion  has 
banished  to  country  towns,  unfolded  its  cups  of  pearl, 
flushed  with  yellow  sunrise,  to  the  heart ;  and  by  its 
side  its  damask  sister  waved  long  sprays  of  bloom  and 
perfume.  Tulips,  dark-purple  and  cream-color,  burn 
ing  scarlet  and  deep  maroon,  held  their  gay  chalices 
up  to  catch  the  dew  ;  hyacinths,  blue,  white,  and  pink, 
hung  heavy  bells  beneath  them ;  spiced  carnations  of 
rose  and  garnet  crowded  their  bed  in  July  and  August ; 
heart' s-ease  fringed  the  walks  ;  May  honeysuckles  clam 
bered  over  the  board-fence  ;  and  monthly  honeysuckles 
overgrew  the  porch  at  the  back-door,  making  perpetual 


40  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

fragrance  from  their  moth-like  horns  of  crimson  and 
ivory.  Nothing  inhabited  those  beds  that  was  not 
sweet  and  fair  and  old-fashioned.  Gray-lavender- 
bushes  sent  up  purple  spikes  in  the  middle  of  the  gar 
den,  and  were  duly  housed  in  winter ;  but  these  were 
the  sole  tender  plants  admitted,  and  they  pleaded  their 
own  cause  in  the  breath  of  the  linen-press  and  the 
bureau-drawers  that  held  Miss  Lucinda's  clothes.  Be 
yond  the  flowers,  utility  blossomed  in  a  row  of  bean 
poles,  a  hedge  of  currant-bushes  against  the  farther 
fence,  carefully  tended  cauliflowers,  and  onions  enough 
to  tell  of  their  use  as  sparing  as  their  number.  A  few 
deep-red  beets  and  golden  carrots  were  all  the  vege 
tables  beside.  Miss  Lucinda  never  ate  potatoes  or 
pork. 

Her  housekeeping,  but  for  her  pets,  would  have  been 
the  proper  housewifery  for  a  fairy.  Out  of  her  fruit 
she  annually  conserved  miracles  of  flavor  and  trans 
parence,  —  great  plums  like  those  in  Aladdin's  garden, 
of  shining  topaz ;  peaches  tinged  with  the  odorous 
bitter  of  their  pits,  and  clear  as  amber ;  crimson  crabs 
floating  in  their  own  ruby  sirup,  or  transmuted  into 
jelly  crystal  clear,  yet  breaking  with  a  grain ;  and 
jelly  from  the  acid  currants  to  garnish  her  dinner- 
table,  or  refresh  the  fevered  lips  of  a  sick  neighbor. 
It  was  a  study  to  visit  her  tiny  pantry,  where  all  these 
' '  lucent  strops  ' '  stood  in  tempting  array,  where  spices 
and  sugar  and  tea  in  their  small  jars  flanked  the  sweet 
meats,  and  a  jar  of  glass  showed  its  store  of  whitest 
honey,  and  another  stood  filled  with  crisp  cakes.  Here 
always  a  loaf  or  two  of  home-made  bread  lay  rolled  in 
a  snowy  cloth,  and  another  was  spread  over  a  dish  of 
butter.  Pies  were  not  in  favor  here,  nor  milk,  —  save 


MISS   LUCINDA.  41 

for  the  cats.  Salt  fish  Miss  Manners  never  could  abide  : 
her  savory  taste  allowed  only  a  bit  of  rich  old 
cheese,  or  thin  scraps  of  hung  beef,  with  her  bread 
and  butter.  Sauces  and  spices  were  few  in  her  reper 
tory  ;  but  she  cooked  as  only  a  lady  can  cook,  and 
might  have  asked  Soyer  himself  to  dinner.  For  verily, 
after  much  meditation  and  experience,  I  have  divined 
that  it  takes  as  much  sense  and  refinement  and  talent 
to  cook  a  dinner,  wash  and  wipe  a  dish,  make  a  bed  as 
it  should  be  made,  and  dust  a  room  as  it  should  be 
dusted,  as  goes  to  the  writing  of  a  novel,  or  shining  in 
high  society. 

But  because  Miss  Lucinda  Manners  was  reserved 
and  "unsociable,"  as  the  neighbors  pronounced  her, 
I  did  not,  therefore,  mean  to  imply  that  she  was  inhu 
man.  No  neighbor  of  hers,  local  or  scriptural,  fell  ill, 
without  an  immediate  offer  of  aid  from  her.  She  made 
the  best  gruel  known  to  Dalton  invalids,  sent  the  ripest 
fruit  and  the  sweetest  flowers ;  and  if  she  could  not 
watch  with  the  sick  because  it  interfered  with  her  duties 
at  home  in  an  unpleasant  and  inconvenient  way,  she 
would  sit  with  them  hour  after  hour  in  the  day-time, 
and  wait  on  all  their  caprices  with  the  patient  tender 
ness  of  a  mother.  Children  she  always  eyed  with 
strange  wistf ulness,  as  if  she  longed  to  kiss  them,  but 
didn't  know  how  ;  yet  no  child  was  ever  invited  across 
her  threshold,  for  the  yellow  cur  hated  to  be  played 
with,  and  children  always  torment  kittens. 

So  Miss  Lucinda  wore  on  happily  toward  the  farther 
side  of  the  middle  ages.  One  after  another  of  her 
pets  passed  away,  and  was  replaced ;  the  yellow  cur 
barked  his  last  currish  signal ;  the  cat  died,  and  her 
kittens  came  to  various  ends  of  time  or  casualty ;  the 


42       SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

crow  fell  away  to  dust,  and  was  too  old  to  stuff ;  and 
the  garden  bloomed  and  faded  ten  times  over,  before 
Miss  Manners  found  herself  to  be  forty-six  years  old, 
which  she  heroically  acknowledged  one  fine  day  to  the 
census-taker.  But  it  was  not  this  consciousness,  nor 
its  confession,  that  drew  the  dark  brows  so  low  over 
Miss  Lucinda's  eyes  that  day :  it  was  quite  another 
trouble,  and  one  that  wore  heavily  on  her  mind,  as  we 
shall  proceed  to  explain.  For  Miss  Manners,  being, 
like  all  the  rest  of  her  sex,  quite  unable  to  do  without 
some  masculine  help,  had  employed  for  some  seven 
years  an  old  man  by  the  name  of  Israel  Slater  to  do 
her  "  chores,"  as  the  vernacular  hath  it.  It  is  a  mor 
tifying  thing,  and  one  that  strikes  at  the  roots  of 
women's  rights  terribly  sharp  blows,  but  I  must  even 
own  it,  that  one  might  as  well  try  to  live  without  one's 
bread  and  butter  as  without  the  aid  of  the  dominant 
sex.  When  I  see  women  split  wood,  unload  coal-carts, 
move  wash-tubs,  and  roll  barrels  of  flour  and  apples 
handily  down  cellar- ways  or  up  into  carts,  then  I  shall 
believe  in  the  sublime  theories  of  the  strong-minded 
sisters  ;  but  as  long  as  I  see  before  me  my  own  forlorn 
little  hands,  and  sit  down  on  the  top  stair  to  recover 
breath,  and  try  in  vain  to  lift  the  water-pitcher  at  table, 
just  so  long  I  shall  be  glad  and  thankful  that  there  are 
men  in  the  world,  and  that  half  a  dozen  of  them  are 
my  kindest  and  best  friends.  It  was  rather  an  afflic 
tion  to  Miss  Lucinda  to  feel  this  innate  dependence ; 
and  at  first  she  resolved  to  employ  only  small  boys, 
and  never  any  one  of  them  more  than  a  week  or  two. 
She  had  an  unshaped  theory  that  an  old  maid  was  a 
match  for  a  small  boy,  but  that  a  man  would  cheat  and 
domineer  over  her.  Experience  sadly  put  to  flight 


MISS   LUCINDA.  43 

these  notions  ;  for  a  succession  of  boys  in  this  cabinet 
ministry  for  the  first  three  years  of  her  stay  in  Dalton 
would  have  driven  her  into  a  Presbyterian  convent, 
had  there  been  one  at  hand.  Boy  Number  One  caught 
the  yellow  cur  out  of  bounds  one  day,  and  shaved  his 
plumy  tail  to  a  bare  stick,  and  Miss  Lucinda  fairly 
shed  tears  of  grief  and  rage  when  Pink  appeared  at 
the  door  with  the  denuded  appendage  tucked  between 
his  little  legs,  and  his  funny  yellow  eyes  casting  side 
long  looks  of  apprehension  at  his  mistress.  Boy  Num 
ber  One  was  despatched  directly.  Number  Two  did 
pretty  well  for  a  month  ;  but  his  integrity  and  his  appe 
tite  conflicted,  and  Miss  Lucinda  found  him  one  moon 
light  night  perched  in  her  plum-tree  devouring  the 
half-ripe  fruit.  She  shook  him  down  with  as  little 
ceremony  as  if  he  had  been  an  apple ;  and,  though  he 
lay  at  death's  door  for  a  week  with  resulting  cholera- 
morbus,  she  relented  not.  So  the  experiment  went  on, 
till  a  list  of  casualties  that  numbered  in  it  fatal  acci 
dents  to  three  kittens,  two  hens,  and  a  rooster,  and  at 
last  Pink  himself,  who  was  sent  into  a  decline  by  re 
peated  drenchings  from  the  watering-pot,  put  an  end 
to  her  forbearance,  and  she  instituted  in  her  viziership 
the  old  man  who  had  now  kept  his  office  so  long,  —  a 
queer,  withered,  slow,  humorous  old  creature,  who 
did  "  chores  "  for  some  six  or  seven  other  households, 
and  got  a  living  by  sundry  "jobs"  of  wood-sawing, 
hoeing  corn,  and  other  like  works  of  labor,  if  not  of 
skill.  Israel  was  a  great  comfort  to  Miss  Lucinda : 
he  was  efficient  counsel  in  the  maladies  of  all  her  pets, 
had  a  sovereign  cure  for  the  gapes  in  chickens,  and 
could  stop  a  cat's  fit  with  the  greatest  ease  ;  he  kept 
tin  tiny  garden  in  perfect  order,  and  was  very  honest, 


44  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

and  Miss  Manners  favored  him  accordingly.  She  com 
pounded  liniment  for  his  rheumatism,  herb-sirup  for 
his  colds,  presented  him  with  a  set  of  flannel  shirts, 
and  knit  him  a  comforter ;  so  that  Israel  expressed 
himself  strongly  in  favor  of  "Miss  Lucindy,"  and 
she  said  to  herself  he  really  was  ' '  quite  good  for  a 
man." 

But  just  now,  in  her  forty-seventh  year,  Miss 
Lucinda  had  come  to  grief,  and  all  on  account  of 
Israel,  and  his  attempts  to  please  her.  About  six 
months  before  this  census-taking  era,  the  old  man  had 
stepped  into  Miss  Manners 's  kitchen  with  an  unusual 
radiance  on  his  wrinkles  and  in  his  eyes,  and  began, 
without  his  usual  morning  greeting,  — 

"I've  got  so'thin'  for  you  naow,  Miss  Lucindy. 
You're  a  master- hand  for  pets  ;  but  I'll  bet  a  red  cent 
you  ha'n't  an  idee  what  I've  got  for  ye  naow  !  " 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,  Israel,"  said  she:  "you'll 
have  to  let  me  see  it." 

"Well,"  said  he,  lifting  up  his  coat,  and  looking 
carefully  behind  him  as  he  sat  down  on  the  settle,  lest 
a  stray  kitten  or  chicken  should  pre-occupy  the  bench, 
"you  see  I  was  down  to  Orrin's  abaout  a  week  back, 
and  he  lied  a  litter  o'  pigs,  —  eleven  on  'em.  Well,  he 
couldn't  raise  the  hull  on  'em,  —  't  a'n't  good  to  raise 
more'n  nine,  —  an'  so  he  said  ef  I'd  'a'  had  a  place  o' 
my  own,  I  could  'a'  had  one  on  'em  ;  but  as  'twas  he 
guessed  he'd  hev  to  send  one  to  market  for  a  roaster. 
I  went  daown  to  the  barn  to  see  'em ;  an'  there  was 
one,  the  cutest  little  critter  I  ever  sot  eyes  on,  —  an* 
I've  seen  more'n  four  pigs  in  my  day,  —  'twas  a  little 
black-spotted  one,  as  spry  as  an  ant,  and  the  dreffu?iest 
knowin'  look  out  of  its  eyes.  I  fellowshipped  it  r  Ight 


MISS   LUCINDA.  45 

off  ;  and  I  said,  says  I,. '  Orrin,  ef  you'll  let  me  hev  that 
'ere  little  spotted  feller,  I'll  git  a  place  for  him,  for  I 
do  take  to  him  consarnedly.'  So  he  said  I  could,  and 
I  fetched  him  hum  ;  and  Miss  Slater  and  me  we  kinder 
fed  him  up  for  a  few  days  back,  till  he  got  sorter 
wonted,  and  I'm  a-goin'  to  fetch  him  to  you." 

"  But,  Israel,  I  haven't  any  place  to  put  him  in." 

"  Well,  that  a'n't  nothin'  to  hender.  I'll  jest  fetch 
out  them  old  boards  out  of  the  wood-shed,  and  knock 
up  a  little  sty  right  off,  daown  by  the  end  o'  the  shed, 
and  you  ken  keep  your  swill  that  I've  hed  before,  and 
it'll  come  handy." 

' '  But  pigs  are  so  dirty  !  ' ' 

"I  don't  know  as  they  be.  They  ha'n't  no  great 
conveniences  for  washin'  ginerally ;  but  I  never  heerd 
as  they  was  dirtier 'n  other  critters  where  they  run  wild. 
An'  beside,  that  a'n't  goin'  to  hender,  nuther.  I  cal 
culate  to  make  it  one  o'  the  chores  to  take  keer  of 
him ;  't  won't  cost  no  more  to  you,  and  I  ha'n't  no 
great  opportunities  to  do  things  for  folks  that's  allers 
a-doin'  for  me  :  so  't  you  needn't  be  afeard,  Miss 
Lucindy  :  I  love  to." 

Miss  Lucinda's  heart  got  the  better  of  her  judgment. 
A  nature  that  could  feel  so  tenderly  for  its  inferiors  in 
the  scale  could  not  be  deaf  to  the  tiny  voices  of  human 
ity  when  they  reached  her  solitude  ;  and  she  thanked 
Israel  for  the  pig  so  heartily,  that  the  old  man's  face 
brightened  still  more,  and  his  voice  softened  from  its 
cracked  harshness,  as  he  said,  clicking  up  and  down 
the  latch  of  the  back-door,  — 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you're  as  welcome  as  you  are 
obleeged,  and  I'll  knock  up  that  'ere  pen  right  off.  He 
sha'n't  pester  ye  any,  that's  a  fact." 


46  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Strange  to  say,  yet  perhaps  it  might  have  been 
expected  from  her  proclivities,  Miss  Lucinda  took 
an  astonishing  fancy  to  the  pig.  Very  few  people 
know  how  intelligent  an  animal  a  pig  is  ;  but,  when  one 
is  regarded  merely  as  pork  and  hams,  one's  intellect  is 
apt  to  fall  into  neglect,  —  a  moral  sentiment  which 
applies  out  of  pigdom.  This  creature  would  not  have 
passed  muster  at  a  county  fair  ;  no  Suffolk  blood  com 
pacted  and  rounded  him  :  he  belonged  to  the  "  racers," 
and  skipped  about  his  pen  with  the  alacrity  of  a  large 
flea,  wiggling  his  curly  tail  as  expressively  as  a  dog's, 
and  "  all  but  speakin',"  as  Israel  said.  He  was  always 
glad  to  see  Miss  Lucinda,  and  established  a  firm  friend 
ship  with  her  dog  Fun,  —  a  pretty,  sentimental  German 
spaniel.  Besides,  he  kept  tolerably  clean  by  dint  of 
Israel's  care,  and  thrust  his  long  nose  between  the 
rails  of  his  pen  for  grass  or  fruit,  or  carrot  and  beet 
tops,  with  a  knowing  look  out  of  his  deep-set  eyes, 
that  was  never  to  be  resisted  by  the  soft-hearted  spin 
ster.  Indeed,  Miss  Lucinda  enjoyed  the  possession  of 
one  pet  who  could  not  tyrannize  over  her.  Pink's 
place  was  more  than  filled  by  Fun,  who  was  so  oppress 
ively  affectionate,  that  he  never  could  leave  his  mis 
tress  alone.  If  she  lay  down  on  her  bed,  he  leaped  up 
and  unlatched  the  door,  and  stretched  himself  on  the 
white  counterpane  beside  her  with  a  grunt  of  satisfac 
tion  ;  if  she  sat  down  to  knit  or  sew,  he  laid  his  head 
and  shoulders  across  her  lap,  or  curled  himself  up  on 
her  knees  ;  if  she  was  cooking,  he  whined  and  coaxed 
round  her  till  she  hardly  knew  whether  she  fried  or 
broiled  her  steak  ;  and  if  she  turned  him  out,  and  but 
toned  the  door,  his  cries  were  so  pitiful,  she  could  never 
be  resolute  enough  to  keep  him  in  exile  five  minutes  ; 


MISS   LUCINDA.  47 

for  it  was  a  prominent  article  in  her  creed  that  animals 
have  feelings  that  are  easily  wounded,  and  are  of  "  like 
passions"  with  men,  only  incapable  of  expression. 
Indeed,  Miss  Lucinda  considered  it  the  duty  of  human 
beings  to  atone  to  animals  for  the  Lord's  injustice  in 
making  them  dumb  and  four-legged.  She  would  have 
been  rather  startled  at  such  an  enunciation  of  her 
practice,  but  she  was  devoted  to  it  as  a  practice.  She 
would  give  her  own  chair  to  the  cat,  and  sit  on  the 
settle  herself ;  get  up  at  midnight  if  a  mew  or  a  bark 
called  her,  though  the  thermometer  was  below  zero ; 
the  tenderloin  of  her  steak,  or  the  liver  of  her  chicken, 
was  saved  for  a  pining  kitten  or  an  ancient  and  tooth 
less  cat ;  and  no  disease  or  wound  daunted  her  faithful 
nursing,  or  disgusted  her  devoted  tenderness.  It  was 
rather  hard  on  humanity,  and  rather  reversive  of  Prov 
idence,  that  all  this  care  and  pains  should  be  lavished 
on  cats  and  dogs,  while  little  morsels  of  flesh  and 
blood,  ragged,  hungry,  and  immortal,  wandered  up 
and  down  the  streets.  Perhaps  that  they  were  immor 
tal  was  their  defence  from  Miss  Lucinda.  One  might 
have  hoped  that  her  ' '  other- woiidliness  ' '  accepted  that 
fact  as  enough  to  outweigh  present  pangs,  if  she  had 
not  openly  declared,  to  Israel  Slater's  immense  amuse 
ment  and  astonishment,  that  she  believed  creatures  had 
souls,  —  little  ones  perhaps,  but  souls,  after  all,  and 
she  did  expect  to  see  Pink  again  some  time  or  other. 

"  Well,  I  hope  he's  got  his  tail  feathered  out  ag'in," 
said  Israel  dryly.  "I  do'no'  but  what  hair'd  grow 
as  well  as  feathers  in  a  speretooal  state,  and  I  never 
see  a  pictur'  of  an  angel  but  what  hed  consider' ble 
many  feathers." 

Miss  Lucinda  looked  rather  confounded.      But  hu- 


48  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

manity  had  one  little  revenge  on  her  in  the  shape  of  her 
cat,  —  a  beautiful  Maltese  with  great  yellow  eyes,  fur 
as  soft  as  velvet,  and  silvery  paws  as  lovely  to  look  at 
as  they  were  thistly  to  touch.  Toby  certainly  pleaded 
hard  for  Miss  Lucinda's  theory  of  a  soul :  but  his  was 
no  good  one  ;  some  tricksy  and  malign  little  spirit  had 
lent  him  his  share  of  intellect,  and  he  used  it  to  the 
entire  subjugation  of  Miss  Lucinda.  When  he  was 
hungry,  he  was  as  well-mannered  and  as  amiable  as  a 
good  child ;  he  would  coax  and  purr,  and  lick  her 
fingers  with  his  pretty  red  tongue,  like  a  "perfect 
love  :  "  but  when  he  had  his  fill,  and  needed  no  more, 
then  came  Miss  Lucinda's  time  of  torment.  If  she 
attempted  to  caress  him,  he  bit  and  scratched  like  a 
young  tiger :  he  sprang  at  her  from  the  floor,  and  fas 
tened  on  her  arm  with  real  furv.  If  he  cried  at  the 
window  and  was  not  directly  let  in,  as  soon  as  he  had 
achieved  entrance  his  first  manoeuvre  was  to  dash  at 
her  ankles,  and  bite  them  if  he  could,  as  punishment 
for  her  tardiness.  This  skirmishing  was  his  favorite 
mode  of  attack.  If  he  was  turned  out  of  the  closet,  or 
off  the  pillow  up  stairs,  he  retreated  under  the  bed,  and 
made  frantic  sallies  at  her  feet,  till  the  poor  woman 
got  actually  nervous,  and  if  he  was  in  the  room  made  a 
flying  leap  as  far  as  she  could  to  her  bed,  to  escape 
those  keen  claws.  Indeed,  old  Israel  found  her  more 
than  once  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen-floor, 
with  Toby  crouched  for  a  spring,  under  the  table,  his 
poor  mistress  afraid  to  move  for  fear  of  her  unlucky 
ankles.  And  this  literally  cat- ridden  woman  was 
hazed  about  and  ruled  over  by  her  feline  tyrant  to  that 
extent  that  he  occupied  the  easiest  chair,  the  softest 
cushion,  the  middle  of  the  bed,  and  the  front  of  the 


MISS   LUCINDA.  49 

fire,  not  only  undisturbed,  but  caressed.  This  is  a 
veritable  history,  beloved  reader,  and  I  offer  it  as  a 
warning  and  an  example.  If  you  will  be  an  old  maid, 
or  if  you  can't  help  it,  take  to  petting  children,  or 
donkeys,  or  even  a  respectable  cow,  but  beware  of 
domestic  tyranny  in  any  shape  but  man's. 

No  wonder  Miss  Lucinda  took  kindly  to  the  pig,  who 
had  a  house  of  his  own,  and  a  servant  as  it  were,  to 
the  avoidance  of  all  trouble  on  her  part,  —  the  pig  who 
capered  for  joy  when  she  or  Fun  approached,  and  had 
so  much  expression  in  his  physiognomy  that  one  almost 
expected  to  see  him  smile.  Many  a  sympathizing 
conference  Miss  Lucinda  held  with  Israel  over  the  per 
fections  of  piggy,  as  he  leaned  against  the  sty,  and 
looked  over  at  his  favorite  after  this  last  chore  was 
accomplished. 

"I  say  for  't,"  exclaimed  the  old  man  one  day, 
"  I  b'lieve  that  cre'tur'  knows  enough  to  be  professor 
in  a  college.  Why,  he  talks  !  he  re'lly  doos  ;  a  leetle 
through  his  nose,  maybe,  but  no  more'n  Dr.  Colton 
allers  does,  —  'n'  I  declare  he  appears  to  have  abaout 
as  much  sense.  I  never  see  the  equal  of  him.  I 
thought  he'd  'a'  larfed  right  out  yesterday  when  I  gin 
him  that  mess  o'  corn.  He  got  up  onto  his  forelegs 
on  the  trough,  an'  he  winked  them  knowin'  eyes  o' 
his'n,  an'  waggled  his  tail,  an'  then  he  set  off  an' 
capered  round  till  he  come  bunt  up  ag'inst  the  boards. 
I  tell  you,  that  sorter  sobered  him.  He  gin  a  growlin' 
grunt,  an'  shook  his  ears,  an'  looked  sideways  at  me ; 
and  then  he  put  to  and  eet  up  that  corn  as  sober  as  a 
judge.  I  swan  !  he  doos  beat  the  Dutch  !  " 

But  there  was  one  calculation  forgotten,  both  by  Miss 
Lucinda  and  Israel :  the  pig  would  grow,  and  in  conse- 


50  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

quence,  as  I  said  before,  Miss  Lucinda  came  to  grief ; 
for,  when  the  census-taker  tinkled  her  sharp  little 
door-bell,  it  called  her  from  a  laborious  occupation  at 
the  sty,  — no  more  and  no  less  than  trying  to  nail  up  a 
board  that  piggy  had  torn  down  in  struggling  to  get 
out  of  his  durance.  He  had  grown  so  large,  that  Miss 
Lucinda  was  afraid  of  him  ;  his  long  legs  and  their 
vivacious  motion  added  to  the  shrewd  intelligence  of 
his  eyes  ;  and  his  nose  seemed  as  formidable  to  this 
poor  little  woman  as  the  tusk  of  a  rhinoceros  :  but  what 
should  she  do  with  him  ?  One  might  as  well  have  pro 
posed  to  her  to  kill  and  cut  up  Israel  as  to  consign 
piggy  to  the  "  fate  of  race."  She  could  not  turn  him 
into  the  street  to  starve,  for  she  loved  him ;  and  the 
old  maid  suffered  from  a  constancy  that  might  have 
made  some  good  man  happy,  but  only  embarrassed  her 
with  the  pig.  She  could  not  keep  him  forever,  that 
was  evident.  She  knew  enough  to  be  aware  that  time 
would  increase  his  disabilities  as  a  pet ;  and  he  was  an 
expensive  one  now,  for  the  corn-swallowing  capacities 
of  a  pig,  one  of  the  "racer"  breed,  are  almost  in 
credible,  and  nothing  about  Miss  Lucinda  wanted  for 
food,  even  to  fatness.  Besides,  he  was  getting  too  big 
for  his  pen  ;  and  so  ' '  cute ' '  an  animal  could  not  be 
debarred  from  all  out-door  pleasures,  and  tantalized 
by  the  sight  of  a  green  and  growing  garden  before  his 
eyes  continually,  without  making  an  effort  to  partake 
of  its  delights.  So,  when  Miss  Lucinda  endued  herself 
with  her  brown  linen  sack  and  sun-bonnet  to  go  and 
weed  her  carrot-patch,  she  was  arrested  on  the  way  by 
a  loud  grunting  and  scrambling  in  piggy's  quarter,  and 
found,  to  her  distress,  that  he  had  contrived  to  knock  off 
the  upper  board  from  his  pen.  She  had  no  hammer  at 


MISS   LUCINDA.  51 

hand  :  so  she  seized  a  large  stone  that  lay  near  by,  and 
pounded  at  the  board  till  the  twice-tinkling  bell  recalled 
her  to  the  house  ;  and,  as  soon  as  she  had  made  confes 
sion  to  the  census-taker,  she  went  back  —  alas,  too 
late  !  Piggy  had  redoubled  his  efforts,  another  board 
had  yielded,  and  he  was  free.  What  a  thing  freedom 
is!  —  how  objectionable  in  practice!  how  splendid  in 
theory !  More  people  than  Miss  Lucinda  have  been 
put  to  their  wits'  end  when  "  hoggie  "  burst  his  bonds, 
and  became  rampant  instead  of  couchant.  But  he  en 
joyed  it.  He  made  the  tour  of  the  garden  on  a  delight 
ful  canter,  brandishing  his  tail  with  an  air  of  defiance 
that  daunted  his  mistress  at  once,  and  regarding  her 
with  his  small  bright  eyes  as  if  he  would  before  long 
taste  her,  and  see  if  she  was  as  crisp  as  she  looked. 
She  retreated  forthwith  to  the  shed,  and  caught  up  a 
broom,  with  which  she  courageously  charged  upon 
piggy,  and  was  routed  entirely ;  for,  being  no  way 
alarmed  by  her  demonstration,  the  creature  capered 
directly  at  her,  knocked  her  down,  knocked  the  broom 
out  of  her  hand,  and  capered  away  again  to  the  young 
carrot-patch. 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  said  Miss  Manners,  gathering  herself 
up  from  the  ground,  "  if  there  only  was  a  man  here  !  " 

Suddenly  she  betook  herself  to  her  heels  ;  for  the 
animal  looked  at  her,  and  stopped  eating :  that  was 
enough  to  drive  Miss  Lucinda  off  the  field.  And  now, 
quite  desperate,  she  rushed  through  the  house,  and  out 
of  the  front-door,  actually  in  search  of  a  man.  Just 
down  the  street  she  saw  one.  Had  she  been  composed, 
she  might  have  noticed  the  threadbare  cleanliness  of 
his  dress,  the  odd  cap  that  crowned  his  iron-gray  locks, 
and  the  peculiar  manner  of  his  walk  ;  for  our  little  old 


52  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

maid  had  stumbled  upon  no  less  a  person  than  Mon 
sieur  Jean  Leclerc,  the  dancing-master  of  Dalton.  Not 
that  this  accomplishment  was  much  in  vogue  in  the 
embrj'o  city  ;  but  still  there  were  a  few  who  liked  to  fit 
themselves  for  firemen's  balls  and  sleighiug-party  frol 
ics,  and  quite  a  large  class  of  children  were  learning 
betimes  such  graces  as  children  in  New  England  re 
ceive  more  easily  than  their  elders.  Monsieur  Leclerc 
had  just  enough  scholars  to  keep  his  coat  threadbare, 
and  restrict  him  to  necessities  ;  but  he  lived,  and  was 
independent.  All  this  Miss  Lucinda  was  ignorant  of : 
she  only  saw  a  man  ;  and,  with  the  instinct  of  the  sex 
in  trouble  or  danger,  she  appealed  to  him  at  once. 

"O  sir!  won't  you  step  in  and  help  me?  My  pig 
has  got  out,  and  I  can't  catch  him,  and  he  is  ruining 
my  garden  !  ' ' 

"  Madame,  I  shall !  "  replied  the  Frenchman,  bowing 
low,  and  assuming  the  first  position. 

So  Monsieur  Leclerc  followed  Miss  Manners,  and 
supplied  himself  with  a  mop  that  was  hanging  in  the 
shed  as  his  best  weapon.  Dire  was  the  battle  between 
the  pig  and  the  Frenchman.  They  skipped  past  each 
other  and  back  again  as  if  they  were  practising  for  a 
cotillon.  Piggy  had  four  legs,  which  gave  him  a  cer 
tain  advantage  ;  but  the  Frenchman  had  most  brain, 
and  in  the  long-run  brain  gets  the  better  of  legs.  A 
weary  dance  they  led  each  other  ;  but  after  a  while  the 
pet  was  hemmed  in  a  corner,  and  Miss  Lucinda  had 
run  for  a  rope  to  tie  him,  when,  just  as  she  returned, 
the  beast  made  a  desperate  charge,  upset  his  opponent, 
and  giving  a  leap  in  the  wrong  direction,  to  his  mani 
fest  astonishment  landed  in  his  own  sty.  Miss  Lu 
cinda' s  courage  rose  :  she  forgot  her  prostrate  friend  in 


MISS   LUCINDA.  53 

need,  and,  running  to  the  pen,  caught  up  hammer  and 
nail-box  on  her  way,  and  with  unusual  energy  nailed 
up  the  bars  stronger  than  ever,  and  then  bethought 
herself  to  thank  the  stranger.  But  there  he  lay  quite 
still  and  pale. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Miss  Manners.  "I  hope  you 
haven't  hurt  yourself,  sir." 

"I  have  fear  that  I  am  hurt,  madame,"  said  he, 
trying  to  smile.  "  I  cannot  to  move  but  it  pains  me." 

"Where  is  it?  Is  it  your  leg,  or  your  arm?  Try 
and  move  one  at  a  time,"  said  Miss  Lucinda  promptly. 

The  left  leg  was  helpless,  it  could  not  answer  to  the 
effort ;  and  the  stranger  lay  back  on  the  ground,  pale 
with  the  pain.  Miss  Lucinda  took  her  lavender-bottle 
out  of  her  pocket,  and  softly  bathed  his  head  and  face  ; 
then  she  took  off  her  sack,  and  folded  it  up  under  his 
head,  and  put  the  lavender  beside  him.  She  was  good 
at  an  emergency,  and  she  showed  it. 

"  You  must  lie  quite  still,"  said  she.  "You  must 
not  try  to  move  till  I  come  back  with  help,  or  your  leg 
will  be  hurt  more." 

With  that  she  went  away,  and  presently  returned 
with  two  strong  men  and  the  long  shutter  of  a  shop- 
window.  To  this  extempore  litter  she  carefully  moved 
the  Frenchman ;  and  then  her  neighbors  lifted  him, 
and  carried  him  into  the  parlor,  where  Miss  Lucinda' s 
chintz  lounge  was  already  spread  with  a  tight-pinned 
sheet  to  receive  the  poor  man  ;  and,  while  her  helpers 
put  him  to  bed,  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  ran  for  the 
doctor. 

Dr.  Col  ton  did  his  best  for  his  patient,  but  pro 
nounced  it  an  impossibility  to  remove  him  till  the  bone 
should  be  joined  firmly,  as  a  thorough  cure  was  all- 


54       SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOES. 

essential  to  his  professional  prospects.  And  now,  in 
deed,  Miss  Lucinda  had  her  hands  full.  A  nurse  could 
not  be  afforded ;  but  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  added  to 
the  list  of  old  Israel's  "  chores,"  and  what  other  nurs 
ing  he  needed  Miss  Lucinda  was  glad  to  do ;  for  her 
kind  heart  was  full  of  self-reproaches  to  think  it  was 
her  pig  that  had  knocked  down  the  poor  man,  and  her 
mop-handle  that  had  twisted  itself  across  and  under  his 
leg,  and  aided,  if  not  caused,  its  breakage.  So  Israel 
came  in  four  or  five  times  a  day  to  do  what  he  could, 
and  Miss  Lucinda  played  nurse  at  other  times  to  the 
best  of  her  ability.  Such  flavorous  gruels  and  por 
ridges  as  she  concocted  !  such  tisanes  after  her  guest's 
instructions  !  such  dainty  soups  and  sweetbreads  and 
cutlets,  served  with  such  neatness  !  After  his  experi 
ence  of  a  second-rate  boarding-house,  Monsieur  Leclerc 
thought  himself  in  a  gastronomic  paradise.  Moreover, 
these  tiny  meals  were  garnished  with  flowers,  which  his 
French  taste  for  color  and  decoration  appreciated,  — 
two  or  three  stems  of  lilies-of-the-valley  in  their  folded 
green  leaves,  cool  and  fragrant ;  a  moss-rosebud  and 
a  spire  of  purple-gray  lavender  bound  together  with 
ribbon-grass  ;  or  three  carnations  set  in  glittering  myr 
tle-sprays,  the  last  acquisition  of  the  garden. 

Miss  Lucinda  enjoyed  nursing  thoroughly,  and  a 
kindlier  patient  no  woman  ever  had.  Her  bright  needle 
flew  faster  than  ever  through  the  cold  linen  and  flaccid 
cambric  of  the  shirts  and  cravats  she  fashioned,  while 
he  told  her,  in  his  odd  idioms,  stories  of  his  life  in 
France,  and  the  curious  customs,  both  of  society  and 
cidsinerie,  with  which  last  he  showed  a  surprising  ac 
quaintance.  Truth  to  tell,  when  Monsieur  Leclerc  said 
he  had  been  a  member  of  the  Due  de  Montmorenci's 


MISS   LUCINDA.  55 

household,  he  withheld  the  other  half  of  this  truth,  — 
that  he  had  been  his  valet-de-chambre ;  but  it  was  an 
hereditary  service,  and  seemed  to  him  as  different  a 
thing  from  common  servitude  as  a  peer's  office  in 
the  bed  chamber  differs  from  a  lackey's.  Indeed,  Mon 
sieur  Leclerc  was  a  gentleman  in  his  own  way,  not  of 
blood,  but  of  breeding ;  and  while  he  had  faithfully 
served  the  "  aristocrats,"  as  his  father  had  done  before 
him,  he  did  not  limit  that  service  to  their  prosperity, 
but  in  their  greatest  need  descended  to  menial  offices, 
and  forgot  that  he  could  dance  and  ride  and  fence 
almost  as  well  as  his  young  master.  But  a  bullet  from 
a  barricade  put  an  end  to  his  duty  there  ;  and  he  hated 
utterly  the  democratic  rule  that  had  overturned  for  him 
both  past  and  future :  so  he  escaped,  and  came  to 
America,  the  grand  resort  of  refugees,  where  he  had 
labored,  as  he  best  knew  how,  for  his  own  support,  and 
kept  to  himself  his  disgust  at  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  barbarians.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  at 
home  and  happy.  Miss  Lucinda's  delicate  fashions 
suited  him  exactly.  He  adored  her  taste  for  the  beau 
tiful,  which  she  was  unconscious  of.  He  enjoyed  her 
cookery  ;  and  though  he  groaned  within  himself  at  the 
amount  of  debt  he  was  incurring,  yet  he  took  courage, 
from  her  kindness,  to  believe  she  would  not  be  a  hard 
creditor,  and,  being  naturally  cheerful,  put  aside  his 
anxieties,  and  amused  himself,  as  well  as  her,  with  his 
stories,  his  quavering  songs,  his  recipes  for  pot-au-feu, 
tisane,  and  pates,  at  once  economical  and  savory.  Never 
had  a  leg  of  lamb  or  a  piece  of  roast  beef  gone  so  far 
in  her  domestic  experience.  A  chicken  seemed  almost 
to  outlive  its  usefulness  in  its  various  forms  of  re-ap 
pearance  ;  and  the  salads  he  devised  were  as  wonderful 


56  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

as  the  omelets  he  superintended,  or  the  gay  dances  he 
played  on  his  beloved  violin,  as  soon  as  he  could  sit  up 
enough  to  manage  it.  Moreover, —  I  should  say  most- 
over,  if  the  word  were  admissible,  —  Monsieur  Leclerc 
lifted  a  great  weight  before  long  from  Miss  Lucinda's 
mind.  He  began  by  subduing  Fun  to  his  proper  place 
by  a  mild  determination  that  completely  won  the  dog's 
heart.  "  Women  and  spaniels,"  the  world  knows,  "  like 
kicking  ;  "  and,  though  kicks  were  no  part  of  the  good 
man's  Rarey  faction  of  Fun,  he  certainly  used  a  certain 
amount  of  coercion,  and  the  dog's  lawful  owner  -ad 
mired  the  skill  of  the  teacher,  and  enjoyed  the  better 
manners  of  the  pupil  thoroughly.  She  could  do  twice 
as  much  sewing  now,  and  never  were  her  nights  dis 
turbed  by  a  bark ;  for  the  dog  crouched  by  his  new 
friend's  bed  in  the  parlor,  and  lay  quiet  there.  Toby 
was  next  undertaken,  and  proved  less  amenable  to  dis 
cipline.  He  stood  in  some  slight  awe  of  the  man  who 
tried  to  teach  him,  but  still  continued  to  sally  out  at 
Miss  Luciuda's  feet,  to  spring  at  her  caressing  hand 
when  he  felt  ill-humored,  and  to  claw  Fun's  patient 
nose  and  his  approaching  paws,  when  his  misplaced 
sentimentality  led  him  to  caress  the  cat.  But,  after  a 
while,  a  few  well-timed  slaps,  administered  with  vigor, 
cured  Toby  of  his  worst  tricks  :  though  every  blow 
made  Miss  Lucinda  wince,  and  almost  shook  her  good 
opinion  of  Monsieur  Leclerc ;  for  in  these  long  weeks 
he  had  wrought  out  a  good  opinion  of  himself  in  her 
mind,  much  to  her  own  surprise.  She  could  not  have 
believed  a  man  could  be  so  polite,  so  gentle,  so  patient, 
and,  above  all,  so  capable  of  ruling  without  tyranny. 
Miss  Lucinda  was  puzzled. 

One  day,  as  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  getting  better, 


MISS    LUCINDA.  f>7 

just  able  to  go  about  on  crutches,  Israel  came  into  the 
kitchen,  and  Miss  Manners  went  out  to  see  him.  She 
left  the  door  open  ;  and  along  with  the  odor  of  a  pot  of 
raspberry-jam  scalding  over  the  fire,  sending  its  steams 
of  leaf-and-insect  fragrance  through  the  little  house, 
there  came  in  also  the  following  conversation. 

"  Israel,"  said  Miss  Lucinda,  in  a  hesitating  and 
rather  forlorn  tone,  "  I  have  been  thinking, — I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  Piggy.  He  is  quite  too  big  for 
me  to  keep.  I'm  afraid  of  him,  if  he  gets  out ;  and 
he  eats  up  the  garden." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  consider' ble'swaller  for  a  pig,  Miss 
Lucindy ;  but  I  b'lieve  you're  abaout  right  abaout 
keepin'  on  him.  He  is  too  big,  that's  a  fact ;  bul 
he's  so  like  a  human  cre'tur',  I'd  jest  abaout  as  lieves 
slarter  Orrin.  I  declare,  I  don't  know  no  more'n  a 
taown-house  goose  what  to  do  with  him  !  " 

u  If  I  gave  him  away,  I  suppose  he  would  be  fatted 
and  killed,  of  course  ?  ' ' 

"  I  guess  he'd  be  killed,  likely  ;  but,  as  for  fatteuin' 
on  him,  I'd  jest  as  soon  undertake  to  fatten  a  salt  cod 
fish.  He's  one  o'  the  racers,  an'  they're  as  holler  as 
hogsheads.  You  can  fill  'em  up  to  their  noses,  ef  you're 
a  mind  to  spend  your  corn,  and  they'll  caper  it  all  off 
their  bones  in  twenty-four  haours.  I  b'lieve,  ef  they 
was  tied  neck  an'  heels,  an'  stuffed,  they'd  wiggle  thin 
betwixt  feedin- times.  Why,  Orrin,  he  raised  nine  on 
'em,  and  every  darned  critter's  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey 
to-day.  They  a'n't  no  good.  I'd  as  lieves  ha'  had 
nine  chestnut-rails,  an'  a  little  lieveser'  ;  cause  they 
don't  eat  nothin'." 

"  You  don't  know  of  any  poor  person  who'd  like  to 
have  a  pig,  do  you?  "  said  Miss  Luciuda  wistfully. 


58  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  the  poorer  they  was,  the  quicker  they'd  eat 
him  up,  I  guess,  —  ef  they  could  eat  such  a  razor- 
back." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  his  being  eaten!  I 
wish  he  could  be  got  rid  of  some  other  way.  Don't 
you  think  he  might  be  killed  in  his  sleep,  Israel?  " 

This  was  a  little  too  much  for  Israel.  An  irresisti 
ble  flicker  of  laughter  twitched  his  wrinkles,  and  bub 
bled  in  his  throat. 

"I  think  it's  likely  'twould  wake  him  up,"  said  he 
demurely.  "Killin's  killin',  and  a  cre'tur'  can't 
sleep  over  it's  thou^li  'twas  the  stomach-ache.  I 
guess  he'd  kick  some,  ef  he  was  asleep  —  and  screech 
some  too  !  " 

Dear  me  !  "  said  Miss  Lucinda,  horrified  at  the  idea. 
"I  wish  he  could  be  sent  out  to  run  in  the  woods. 
Are  there  any  good  woods  near  here,  Israel?  " 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  he'd  as  lieves  be  slartered 
to  once  as  to  starve,  an'  be  hunted  down  out  in  the 
lots.  Besides,  there  a' n't  nobody  as  I  knows  of  would 
like  a  hog  to  be  a-rootin'  round  amongst  their  turnips 
and  young  wheat." 

"Well,  what  I  shall  do  with  him  I  don't  know!  " 
despairingly  exclaimed  Miss  Lucinda.  ' '  He  was  such 
a  dear  little  thing  when  you  brought  him,  Israel !  Do 
you  remember  how  pink  his  pretty  little  nose  was,  — 
just  like  a  rose-bud,  —  and  how  bright  his  eyes  looked, 
and  his  cunning  legs?  And  now  he's  grown  so  big 
and  fierce  !  But  I  can't  help  liking  him,  either." 

"He's  a  cute  critter,  that's  sartain ;  but  he  does 
too  much  rootin'  to  have  a  pink  nose  now,  I  expect : 
there's  consider 'ble  on't,  so  I  guess  it  looks  as  well  to 
have  it  gray.  But  I  don't  know  no  more'n  you  do 
what  to  do  abaout  it." 


MISS    LUCINDA.  59 

"  If  I  could  only  get  rid  of  him  without  knowing 
what  became  of  him ! ' '  exclaimed  Miss  Lucinda, 
squeezing  her  forefinger  with  great  earnestness,  and 
looking  both  puzzled  and  pained. 

"If  Mees  Lucinda  would  pairmit?"  said  a  voice 
behind  her. 

She  turned  round  to  see  Monsieur  Leclerc  on  his 
crutches,  just  in  the  parlor-door. 

"I  shall,  mees,  myself  dispose  of  piggee,  if  it 
please.  I  can.  I  shall  have  no  sound  :  he  shall  to 
go  away  like  a  silent  snow,  to  trouble  you  no  more, 
never !  ' ' 

"  O  sir,  if  you  could  !     But  I  don't  see  how." 

"  If  mees  was  to  see,  it  would  not  be  to  save  her 
pain.  I  shall  have  him  to  go  by  magique  to  fiery 
land." 

Fairy-land  probably.  But  Miss  Lucinda  did  not 
perceive  the  equivoque. 

"  Nor  yet  shall  I  trouble  Meester  Israyel.  I  shall 
have  the  aid  of  myself  and  one  good  friend  that  I 
have ;  and  some  night,  when  you  rise  of  the  morning, 
he  shall  not  be  there." 

Miss  Lucinda  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged,  — I  shall  be,  I  mean,"  said 
she. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  enough  to  wash  my  hands  on't," 
said  Israel.  "I  shall  hanker  arter  the  critter  some, 
but  he's  a-gettin'  too  big  to  be  handy ;  V  it's  one 
comfort  abaout  critters,  you  ken  get  rid  on  'em  some- 
haow  when  they're  more  plague  than  profit.  But 
folks  has  got  to  be  let  alone,  excep'  the  Lord  takes 
'em  ;  an'  he  don't  allers  see  fit." 

AVhat  added  point  and  weight  to  these  final  remarks 


60  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

of  old  Israel  was  the  well-known  fact  that  lie  suf 
fered  at  home  from  the  most  pecking  and  worrying  of 
wives,  and  had  been  heard  to  say,  in  some  moment  of 
unusual  frankness,  that  he  "  didn't  see  how  't  could 
be  sinful  to  wish  Miss  Slater  was  in  heaven,  for  she'd 
be  lots  better  off,  and  other  folks  too." 

Miss  Lucinda  never  knew  what  befell  her  pig  one 
fine  September  night :  she  did  not  even  guess  that  a 
visit  paid  to  monsieur  by  one  of  his  pupils,  a  farmer's 
daughter  just  out  of  Dalton,  had  any  thing  to  do  with 
this  enlevement.  She  was  sound  asleep  in  her  bed  up 
stairs,  when  her  guest  shod  his  crutches  with  old 
gloves,  and  limped  out  to  the  garden-gate  by  dawn, 
where  he  and  the  farmer  tolled  the  animal  out  of  his 
sty,  and  far  down  the  street,  by  tempting  red  apples, 
and  then  Farmer  Steele  took  possession  of  him,  and 
he  was  seen  no  more.  No,  the  first  thing  Miss  Lu 
cinda  knew  of  her  riddance  was  when  Israel  put  his 
head  into  the  back-door  that  same  morning,  some  four 
hours  afterward,  and  said  with  a  significant  nod,  — 

"He's  gone!  " 

After  all  his  other  chores  were  done,  Israel  had  a 
conference  with  Monsieur  Leclerc  ;  and  the  two  sallied 
into  the  garden,  and  in  an  hour  had  dismantled  the 
low  dwelling,  cleared  away  the  wreck,  levelled  and 
smoothed  its  site,  and  monsieur,  having  previously 
provided  himself  with  an  Isabella  grape-vine,  planted 
it  on  this  forsaken  spot,  and  trained  it  carefully  against 
the  end  of  the  shed  :  strange  to  say,  though  it  was 
against  all  precedent  to  transplant  a  grape  in  Septem 
ber,  it  lived  and  flourished.  Miss  Lucinda' s  gratitude 
to  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  altogether  disproportioned, 
as  he  thought,  to  his  slight  service.  He  could  not 


MISS    LUCINDA.  Gl 

understand  fully  her  devotion  to  her  pets ;  but  he  re 
spected  it,  and  aided  it  whenever  he  could,  though  he 
never  surmised  the  motive  that  adorned  Miss  Lucinda's 
table  with  such  delicate  superabundance  after  the  late 
departure,  and  laid  bundles  of  lavender-flowers  in  his 
tiny  portmanteau  till  the  very  leather  seemed  to  gather 
fragrance. 

Before  long  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  well  enough  to 
resume  his  classes,  and  return  to  his  boarding-house ; 
but  the  latter  was  filled,  and  only  offered  a  prospect  of 
vacancy  in  some  three  weeks  after  his  application  :  so 
he  returned  home  somewhat  dejected ;  and  as  he  sat 
by  the  little  parlor-fire  after  tea,  he  said  to  his  hostess 
in  a  reluctant  tone,  — 

"  Mees  Lucinda,  you  have  been  of  the  kindest  to 
the  poor  alien.  I  have  it  in  my  mind  to  relieve  you  of 
this  care  very  rapidly,  but  it  is  not  in  tho  Fates  that  I 
do.  I  have  gone  to  my  house  of  lodgings,  and  they 
cannot  to  give  me  a  chamber  as  yet.  I  have  fear  that 
I  must  yet  rely  me  on  your  goodness  for  some  time 
more,  if  you  can  to  entertain  me  so  much  more  of 
time  ? ' ' 

"Why,  I  shall  like  to,  sir,"  replied  the  kindly,  sim 
ple-hearted  old  maid.  "I'm  sure  you  are  not  a  mite 
of  trouble,  and  I  never  can  forget  what  you  did  for  my 

Pig." 

A  smile  flitted  across  the  Frenchman's  thin  dark 
face,  and  he  watched  her  glittering  needles  a  few  min 
utes  in  silence  before  he  spoke  again. 

"But  I  have  other  tilings  to  say  of  the  most  un 
pleasant  to  me,  Mees  Lucinda.  I  have  a  great  debt 
for  the  goodness  and  care  you  to  me  have  lavished. 
To  the  angels  of  the  good  God  we  must  submit  to  be 


62       SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

debtors ;  but  there  are  also  of  mortal  obligations,  j 
have  lodged  in  your  mansion  for  more  of  ten  weeks, 
and  to  you  I  pay  yet  no  silver  ;  but  it  is  that  I  have  it 
not  at  present.  I  must  ask  of  your  goodness  to  wait." 

The  old  maid's  shining  black  eyes  grew  soft  as  she 
looked  at  him. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  I  don't  think  you  owe  me  much 
of  any  thing,  Mr.  Leclerc.  I  never  knew  things  last  as 
they  have  since  you  came.  I  really  think  you  brought 
a  blessing.  I  wish  you  would  please  to  think  you  don't 
owe  me  any  thing." 

The  Frenchman's  great  brown  eyes  shone  with  sus 
picious  dew. 

' '  I  cannot  to  forget  that  I  owe  to  you  far  more  than 
any  silver  of  man  repays  ;  but  I  should  not  think  to 
forget  that  I  also  owe  to  you  silver,  or  I  should  not  be 
worthy  of  a  man's  name.  No,  mees !  I  have  two 
hands  and  legs.  I  will  not  let  a  woman  most  solitary 
spend  for  me  her  good  self." 

^  Well,"  said  Miss  Lucinda,  "  if  you  will  be  uneasy 
till  you  pay  me,  I  would  rather  have  another  kind  of 
pay  than  money.  I  should  like  to  know  how  to  dance. 
I  never  did  learn  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  1  think  it 
would  be  good  exercise." 

Miss  Lucinda  supported  this  pious  fiction  through 
with  a  simplicity  that  quite  deceived  the  Frenchman. 
He  did  not  think  it  so  incongruous  as  it  was.  He  had 
seen  women  of  sixty,  rouged  and  jewelled  and  fnrbe- 
lowed,  foot  it  deftly  in  the  halls  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain  in  his  earliest  youth  ;  and  this  cheery,  healthy 
woman,  with  lingering  blooms  on  either  cheek,  and 
uncapped  head  of  curly  black  hair  but  slightly  strewn 
with  silver,  seemed  quite  as  fit  a  subject  for  the  accom- 


MISS  LUCINDA.  63 

plishment.  Besides,  he  was  poor ;  and  this  offered 
so  easy  a  way  of  paying  the  debt  he  had  so  dreaded ! 
Well  said  Solomon,  "The  destruction  of  the  poor  is 
their  poverty."  For  whose  moral  sense,  delicate  sen 
sitiveness,  generous  longings,  will  not  sometimes  give 
way  to  the  stringent  need  of  food  and  clothing,  the  gall 
of  indebtedness,  and  the  sinking  consciousness  of  an 
empty  purse  and  threatening  possibilities  ? 

Monsieur  Leclerc's  face  brightened. 

"  Ah,  with  what  grand  pleasure  shall  I  teach  you  the 
dance !  ' ' 

But  it  fell  dark  again  as  he  proceeded,  — 

"Though  not  one,  nor  two,  nor  three,  nor  four 
quarters  shall  be  of  value  sufficient  to  achieve  my  pay 
ment." 

"Then,  if  that  troubles  you,  why,  I  should  like  to 
take  some  French  lessons  in  the  evening,  when  you 
don't  have  classes.  I  learned  French  when  I  was  quite 
a  girl,  but  not  to  speak  it  very  easily ;  and  if  I  could 
get  some  practice,  and  the  right  way  to  speak,  I  should 
be  glad." 

"And  I  shall  give  you  the  real  Parisien  tone,  Mees 
Lucinda,"  said  he  proudly.  "I- shall  be  as  if  it  were 
no  more  an  exile  when  I  repeat  my  tongue  to  you. ' ' 

And  so  it  was  settled.  Why  Miss  Lucinda  should 
learn  French  any  more  than  dancing  was  not  a  question 
in  Monsieur  Leclerc's  mind.  It  is  true  that  Chaldaic 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  as  useful  to  our  friend  as 
French  ;  mid  the  flying  over  poles,  and  hanging  by  toes 
and  fingers,  so  eloquently  described  by  apostles  of  the 
body,  would  have  been  as  well  adapted  to  her  style 
and  capacity  as  dancing.  But  his  own  language,  and 
his  own  profession !  —  what  man  would  not  have 


64  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

regarded  these  as  indispensable  to  improvement,  par 
ticularly  when  they  paid  his  board? 

During  the  latter  three  weeks  of  Monsieur  Leclerc's 
stay  with  Miss  Lucinda,  he  made  himself  surprisingly 
useful.  He  listed  the  doors  against  approaching  winter 
breezes ;  he  weeded  in  the  garden,  trimmed,  tied, 
trained,  wherever  either  good  office  was  needed,  mend 
ed  china  with  an  infallible  cement,  and  rickety  chairs 
with  the  skill  of  a  cabinet-maker ;  and,  whatever  hard 
or  dirty  work  he  did,  he  always  presented  himself  at 
table  in  a  state  of  scrupulous  neatness.  His  long  brown 
hands  showed  no  trace  of  labor  ;  his  iron-gray  hair  was 
reduced  to  smoothest  order ;  his  coat  speckless,  if 
threadbare  ;  and  he  ate  like  a  gentleman,  — an  accom 
plishment  not  always  to  be  found  in  the  "  best  society," 
as  the  phrase  goes  :  whether  the  best  in  fact  ever  lacks 
it  is  another  thing.  Miss  Lucinda  appreciated  these 
traits  ;  they  set  her  at  ease  ;  and  a  pleasanter  home-life 
could  scarce  be  painted  than  now  enlivened  the  little 
wooden  house.  But  three  weeks  pass  away  rapidly ; 
and  when  the  rusty  portmanteau  was  gone  from  her 
spare  chamber,  and  the  well-worn  boots  from  the 
kitchen-corner,  and  the  hat  from  its  nail,  Miss  Lucinda 
began  to  find  herself  wonderfully  lonely.  She  missed 
the  armfuls  of  wood  in  her  wood-box  that  she  had  to 
iill  laboriously,  two  sticks  at  a  time  ;  she  missed  the 
other  plate  at  her  tiny  round  table,  the  other  chair  be 
side  her  fire ;  she  missed  that  dark,  thin,  sensitive 
face,  with  its  rare  and  sweet  smile  ;  she  wanted  her 
story-teller,  her  yarn- winder,  her  protector,  back  again. 
Good  gracious  !  to  think  of  an  old  lady  of  forty-seven 
entertaining  such  sentiments  for  a  man. 

Presently  the  dancing-lessons  commenced.      It  was 


MISS    LTJCIXDA.  DO 

thought  advisable  that  Miss  Manners  should  enter  a 
class,  and  in  the  fervency  of  her  good  intentions  she 
did  not  demur.  But  gratitude  and  respect  had  to 
strangle  with  persistent  hands  the  little  serpents  of  the 
ridiculous  in  Monsieur  Leclerc's  soul  when  he  beheld 
his  pupil's  first  appearance.  What  reason  was  it,  O 
rose  of  seventeen !  adorning  thyself  with  cloudy  films 
of  lace  and  sparks  of  jewelry  before  the  mirror  that 
reflects  youth  and  beauty,  that  made  Miss  Lucinda 
array  herself  in  a  brand-new  dress  of  yellow  muslin-de 
laine  strewed  with  round  green  spots,  and  displace  her 
customary  handkerchief  for  a  huge  tamboured  collar, 
on  this  eventful  occasion  ?  Why,  oh,  why  !  did  she  tie 
up  the  roots  of  her  black  hair  with  an  unconcealable 
scarlet  string  ?  And,  most  of  all,  why  was  her  dress  so 
short,  her  slipper-strings  so  big  and  broad,  her  thick 
slippers  so  shapeless,  by  reason  of  the  corns  and 
bunions  that  pertained  to  the  feet  within?  The  "in 
stantaneous  rush  of  several  guardian  angels"  thai 
once  stood  dear  old  Hepzibah  Pynchon  in  good  stead 
was  wanting  here ;  or  perhaps  they  stood  by  all- 
invisible,  their  calm  eyes  softened  with  love  deeper 
than  tears,  at  this  spectacle  so  ludicrous  to  man,  be 
holding  in  the  grotesque  dress  and  adornments  only 
the  budding  of  life's  divinest  blossom,  and  in  the 
strange  skips  and  hops  of  her  first  attempts  at  dancing 
only  the  buoyancy  of  those  inner  wings  that  goodness 
and  generosity  and  pure  self-devotion  were  shaping  for 
a  future  strong  and  stately  flight  upward.  However, 
men,  women,  and  children  do  not  see  with  angelic  eyes, 
and  the  titterings  of  her  fellow-pupils  were  irrepressible. 
One  bouncing  girl  nearly  choked  herself  with  her  hand 
kerchief,  trying  not  to  laugh  ;  and  two  or  three  did  not 


66  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

eveu  try.  Monsieur  Leclerc  could  not  blame  them.  At 
first  he  could  scarce  control  his  own  facial  muscles  ;  but 
a  sense  of  remorse  smote  him,  as  he  saw  how  uncon 
scious  and  earnest  the  little  woman  was,  and  remem 
bered  how  often  those  knotty  hands  and  knobbed  feet 
had  waited  on  his  need  or  his  comfort.  Presently  he 
tapped  on  his  violin  for  a  few  moments'  respite,  and 
approached  Miss  Lucinda  as  respectfully  as  if  she  had 
been  a  queen. 

"  You  are  ver'  tired,  Mees  Luciuda?  "  said  he. 

"I  am  a  little,  sir,"  said  she,  out  of  breath.  "I 
am  not  used  to  dancing  :  it's  quite  an  exertion." 

"It  is  that  truly.  If  you  are  too  much  tired,  is  it 
better  to  wait  ?  I  shall  finish  for  you  the  lesson  till  I 
come  to-night  for  a  French  conversation  ?  ' ' 

"  I  guess  I  will  go  home,"  said  the  simple  little  lady, 
"lam  some  afraid  of  getting  rheumatism.  But  use 
makes  perfect,  and  I  shall  stay  through  next  time,  no 
doubt." 

"So  I  believe,"  said  monsieur,  with  his  best  bow, 
as  Miss  Lucinda  departed  and  went  home,  pondering 
all  the  way  what  special  delicacy  she  should  provide 
for  tea. 

"My  dear  young  friends,"  said  Monsieur  Leclerc, 
pausing  with  the  uplifted  bow  in  his  hand,  before  he 
recommenced  his  lesson,  "  I  have  observe  that  my  new 
pupil  does  make  you  much  to  laugh.  I  am  not  so  sur 
prise  ;  for  you  do  not  know  all,  and  the  good  God  does 
not  robe  all  angels  in  one  manner.  But  she  have  taken 
me  to  her  mansion  with  a  leg  broken,  and  have  nursed 
me  like  a  saint  of  the  blessed,  nor  with  any  pay  of 
silver,  except  that  I  teach  her  the  dance  and  the  French. 
The}-  are  pay  for  the  meat  and  the  drink  ;  but  she  will 


MISS   LUCINDA.  67 

have  no  more  for  her  good  patience  and  care.  I  like 
to  teach  you  the  dance  ;  but  she  could  teach  you  the 
saints'  ways,  which  are  better.  I  think  you  will  no 
more  to  laugh." 

"No,  I  guess  we  won't!"  said  the  bouncing  girl 
with  great  emphasis  ;  and  the  color  rose  over  more  than 
•one  young  face. 

After  that  day  Miss  Lucinda  received  many  a  kind 
smile  and  hearty  welcome,  and  never  did  anybody  ven 
ture  even  a  grimace  at  her  expense.  But  it  must  be 
acknowledged  that  her  dancing  was  at  least  peculiar. 
With  a  sanitary  view  of  the  matter,  she  meant  to  make 
it  exercise  ;  and  fearful  was  the  skipping  that  ensued. 
She  chassed  on  tiptoe,  and  balanced  with  an  indescrib 
able  hopping  twirl,  that  made  one  think  of  a  chickadee 
pursuing  its  quest  of  food  on  new-ploughed  ground ; 
and  some  late-awakened  feminine  instinct  of  dress, 
restrained,  too,  by  due  economy,  endued  her  with  the 
oddest  decorations  that  woman  ever  devised.  The 
French  lessons  went  on  more  smoothly.  If  Monsieur 
Leclerc's  Parisian  ear  was  tortured  by  the  barbarous 
accent  of  Vermont,  at  least  he  bore  it  with  heroism, 
since  there  was  nobody  else  to  hear  ;  and  very  pleasant, 
both  to  our  little  lady  and  her  master,  were  these  long 
winter  evenings,  when  they  diligently  waded  through 
Racine,  and  even  got  as  far  as  the  golden  periods  of 
Chateaubriand.  The  pets  fared  badly  for  petting  in 
these  days  :  they  were  fed  and  waited  on,  but  not  with 
the  old  devotion.  It  began  to  dawn  on  Miss  Lucinda's 
mind  that  something  to  talk  to  was  preferable,  as  a 
companion,  even  to  Fun,  and  that  there  might  be  a 
stranger  sweetness  in  receiving  care  and  protection 
than  in  giving  it. 


68       SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Spring  came  at  last.  Its  softer  skies  were  as  blue 
over  Dalton  as  in  the  wide  fields  without,  and  its  foot 
steps,  as  bloom-bringing  in  Miss  Lucinda's  garden  as 
in  mead  or  forest.  Now  Monsieur  Leclerc  came  to 
her  aid  again  at  odd  minutes,  and  set  her  flower-beds 
with  mignonette-borders,  and  her  vegetable-garden 
with  salad- herbs  of  new  and  flourishing  kinds.  Yet 
not  even  the  sweet  season  seemed  to  hurry  the  catas 
trophe,  that  we  hope,  dearest  reader,  thy  tender  eyes 
have  long  seen  impending.  No  ;  for  this  quaint  alliance 
a  quainter  Cupid  waited  :  the  chubby  little  fellow  with 
a  big  head  and  a  little  arrow,  who  waits  on  youth  and 
loveliness,  was  not  wanted  here.  Lucinda's  god  of 
love  wore  a  lank,  hard-featured,  grizzly  shape,  no 
less  than  that  of  Israel  Slater,  who  marched  into  the 
garden  one  fine  June  morning,  earlier  than  usual,  to 
find  monsieur  in  his  blouse,  hard  at  work  weeding  the 
cauliflower-bed . 

"  Good-mornin',  sir,  good-mornin'  !  "  said  Israel,  in 
answer  to  the  Frenchman's  greeting.  "  This  is  a  real 
slick  little  garden-spot  as  ever  I  see,  and  a  pootty 
house,  and  a  real  clever  woman  too.  I'll  be  skwitched 
ef  it  a'n't  a  fust-rate  consarn,  the  hull  on't.  Be  you 
ever  a-goin'  back  to  France,  mister?  " 

"  No,  my  goot  friend.  I  have  nobody  there.  I 
stay  here.  I  have  friend  here;  but  there, — oh^non! 
je  ne  reviendmi  pas  /  a/i,  jamais,  jamais!" 

"Pa's  dead,  eh?  or  shamming?  Well,  I  don't  un 
derstand  your  lingo  ;  but,  ef  you're  a-goin'  to  stay  here, 
I  don't  see  why  you  don't  hitch  hosses  with  Miss 
Luciudy." 

Monsieur  Leclerc  looked  up  astonished. 

"  Horses,  my  friend?     1  have  no  horse." 


MISS   LUCINDA.  69 

"  Thunder  V  dry  trees  !  I  didn't  say  you  bed,  did 
I?  But  that  comes  o'  usin'  what  Parson  Hyde  calls 
figgurs,  I  s'pose.  I  wish  't  he'd  use  one  kind  o'  figgur- 
in'  a  leetle  more:  he'd  pay  me  for  that  wood-sawin'. 
I  didn't  mean  nothin'  about  bosses.  I  sot  out  fur  to 
say,  Why  don't  ye  marry  Miss  Lucindy?  " 

"I?"  gasped  monsieur,  —  "I,  the  foreign,  the 
poor  ?  I  could  not  to  presume  so  !  " 

"Well,  I  don't  see  's  it's  sech  drefful  presumption. 
Ef  you're  poor,  she's  a  woman,  and  real  lonesome 
too  :  she  ha'n't  got  nuther  chick  nor  child  belongin'  to 
her,  and  you're  the  only  man  she  ever  took  any  kind 
of  a  notion  to.  I  guess  'twould  be  jest  as  much  for 
her  good  as  yourn." 

"Hush,  good  Is-ray-el !  it  is  good  to  stop  there. 
She  would  not  to  marry  after  such  years  of  goodness. 
She  is  a  saint  of  the  blessed." 

"Well,  I  guess  saints  sometimes  fellerships  with 
sinners  ;  I've  heerd  tell  they^did :  and,  ef  I  was  you, 
I'd  make  trial  for't.  Nothin'  ventur',  nothin'  have." 

Whereupon  Israel  walked  off,  whistling. 

Monsieur  Leclerc's  soul  was  perturbed  within  him 
by  these  suggestions.  He  pulled  up  two  young  cauli 
flowers,  and  reset  their  places  with  pigweeds  ;  he  hoed 
the  nicely  sloped  border  of  the  bed  flat  to  the  path,  and 
then  flung  the  hoe  across  the  walk,  and  went  off  to  his 
daily  occupation  with  a  new  idea  in  his  head.  Nor 
was  it  an  unpleasant  one.  The  idea  of  a  transition 
from  his  squalid  and  pinching  boarding-house  to  the 
delicate  comfort  of  Miss  Lucinda's  menage,  the  pros 
pect  of  so  kind  and  good  a  wife  to  care  for  his  hitherto 
dreaded  future,  —  all  this  was  pleasant.  I  cannot  hon 
estly  say  he  was  in  love  with  our  friend :  I  must  even 


70  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

confess  that  whatever  element  of  that  nature  existed 
between  the  two  was  now  all  on  Miss  Lucinda's  side, 
little  as  she  knew  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  when  she 
appeared  that  day  at  the  dancing- class  in  a  new  green 
calico  flowered  with  purple,  and  bows  on  her  slip 
pers  big  enough  for  a  bonnet,  it  occurred  to  Monsieur 
Leclerc,  that,  if  they  were  married,  she  would  take  no 
more  lessons.  However,  let  us  not  blame  him.  He  was 
a  man,  and  a  poor  one  ;  one  must  not  expect  too  much 
from  men  or  from  poverty :  if  they  are  tolerably  good, 
let  us  canonize  them  even,  it  is  so  hard  for  the  poor 
creatures  !  And,  to  do  Monsieur  Leclerc  justice,  he 
had  a  very  thorough  respect  and  admiration  for  Miss 
Lucinda.  Years  ago,  in  his  stormy  youth-time,  there 
had  been  a  pair  of  soft-fringed  eyes  that  looked  into 
his  as  none  would  ever  look  again.  And  they  mur 
dered  her,  those  mad  wild  beasts  of  Paris,  in  the 
chapel  where  she  knelt  at  her  pure  prayers,  — murdered 
her  because  she  knelt  Reside  an  aristocrat,  her  best 
friend,  the  Duchess  of  Montmorenci,  who  had  taken 
the  pretty  peasant  from  her  own  estate  to  bring  her  up 
for  her  maid.  Jean  Leclerc  had  lifted  that  pale  shape 
from  the  pavement,  and  buried  it  himself  :  what  else  he 
buried  with  it  was  invisible.  But  now  he  recalled  the 
hour  with  a  long,  shuddering  sigh,  and,  hiding  his  face 
in  his  hands,  said  softly,  "  The  violet  is  dead  :  there  is 
no  spring  for  her.  I  will  have  now  an  amaranth :  it 
is  good  for  the  tomb." 

Whether  Miss  Lucinda's  winter  dress  suggested  this 
floral  metaphor,  let  us  not  inquire.  Sacred  be  senti 
ment,  when  there  is  even  a  shadow  of  reality  about 
it :  when  it  becomes  a  profession,  and  confounds  it 
self  with  millinery,  and  shades  of  mourning,  it  is 
"  bosh,"  as  the  Turkeys  say. 


MISS   LUCINDA.  71 

So  that  very  evening  Monsieur  Leclerc  arrayed  him 
self  in  his  best  to  give  another  lesson  to  Miss  Lucinda. 
But,  somehow  or  other,  the  lesson  was  long  in  begin 
ning.  The  little  parlor  looked  so  homelike  and  so  pleas 
ant,  with  its  bright  lamp  and  gay  bunch  of  roses  on 
the  table,  that  it  was  irresistible  temptation  to  lounge 
and  linger.  Miss  Lucinda  had  the  volume  of  Florian 
in  her  hands,  and  was  wondering  why  he  did  not 
begin,  when  the  book  was  drawn  away,  and  a  hand 
laid  on  both  of  hers. 

"Lucinda,"  he  began,  "I  give  you  no  lesson  to 
night.  I  have  to  ask.  Dear  mees,  will  you  to  marry 
your  poor  slave  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  said  Miss  Lucinda. 

Don't  laugh  at  her,  Miss  Tender-eyes.  You  will 
feel  just  so  yourself  some  day,  when  Alexander 
Augustus  says,  "Will  you  be  mine,  loveliest  of  your 
sex?  "  Only  you  won't  feel  it  half  so  strongly,  for  you 
are  young,  and  love  is  nature  to  youth ;  but  it  is  a 
heavenly  surprise  to  age. 

Monsieur  Leclerc  said  nothing.  He  had  a  heart, 
after  all,  and  it  was  touched  now  by  the  deep  emotion 
that  flushed  Miss  Lucinda 's  face,  and  made  her  tremble 
so  violently  ;  but  presently  he  spoke. 

"Do  not,"  said  he.  "I  am  wrong.  I  presume. 
Forgive  the  stranger." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  said  poor  Lucinda  again.  "  Oh  !  you 
know  it  isn't  that ;  but  how  can  you  like  me?  " 

There,  mademoiselle,  there's  humility  for  you !  you 
will  never  say  that  to  Alexander  Augustus. 

Monsieur  Leclerc  soothed  this  frightened,  happy, 
incredulous  little  woman  into  quiet  before  very  long ; 
and,  if  he  really  began  to  feel  a  true  affection  for  her 


72  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

from  the  moment  he  perceived  her  humble  and  entire 
devotion  to  him,  who  shall  blame  him?  Not  I.  If  we 
were  all  heroes,  who  would  be  valet-de-chambre?  If 
we  were  all  women,  who  would  be  men?  He  was  very 
good  as  far  as  he  went ;  and,  if  you  expect  the  chival 
ries  of  grace  out  of  nature,  you  "may  expect,"  as 
old  Fuller  saith.  So  it  was  peacefully  settled  that  they 
should  be  married,  with  a  clue  amount  of  tears  and 
smiles  on  Lucinda's  part,  and  a  great  deal  of  tender 
sincerity  on  monsieur's.  She  missed  her  dancing- 
lesson  next  day  ;  and,  when  Monsieur  Leclerc  came  in 
the  evening,  he  found  a  shade  on  her  happy  face. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  said  she,  as  he  entered. 

"Oh,  dear!"  was  Lucinda's  favorite  aspiration. 
Had  she  thought  of  it  as  an  Anglicizing  of  "  0  Dieu!" 
perhaps  she  would  have  dropped  it ;  but  this  time  she 
went  on  headlong,  with  a  valorous  despair,  — 

"  I  have  thought  of  something.  I  'm  afraid  I  can't ! 
Monsieur,  aren't  you  a  Romanist?  " 

"  What  is  that?  "  said  he,  surprised. 

"A  Papist,  a  Catholic." 

"Ah!"  he  returned,  sighing,  "once  I  was  bon 
Catholique,  — once  in  my  gone  youth  ;  after  then  I  was 
nothing  but  the  poor  man  who  bats  for  his  life  ;  now  I 
am  of  the  religion  that  shelters  the  stranger,  and  binds 
up  the  broken  poor." 

Monsieur  was  a  dipl  -matist.  This  melted  Miss  Lu 
cinda's  orthodoxy  right  down  :  she  only  said,  — 

' '  Then  you  will  go  to  church  with  me  ?  ' ' 

"And  to  the  skies  above,  I  pray,"  said  monsieur, 
kissing  her  knotty  hand  like  a  lover. 

So  in  the  earliest  autumn  they  were  married,  mon 
sieur  having  previously  presented  Miss  Lucinda  with  a 


MISS   LUCINDA.  73 

delicate  plaided  gray  silk  for  her  wedding  attire,  in 
which  she  looked  almost  young ;  and  old  Israel  was 
present  at  the  ceremony,  which  was  briefly  performed 
by  Parson  Hyde  in  Miss  Manners 's  parlor.  They  did 
not  go  to  Niagara,  nor  to  Newport ;  but  that  afternoon 
Monsieur  Leclerc  brought  a  hired  rockaway  to  the 
door,  and  took  his  bride  a  drive  into  the  country. 
They  stopped  beside  a  pair  of  bars,  where  monsieur 
hitched  his  horse,  and,  taking  Lucinda  by  the  hand, 
led  her  into  Farmer  Steele's  orchard,  to  the  foot  of  his 
biggest  apple-tree.  There  she  beheld  a  little  mound, 
at  the  head  and  foot  of  which  stood  a  daily  rose-bush 
shedding  its  latest  wreaths  of  bloom,  and  upon  the 
mound  itself  was  laid  a  board,  on  which  she  read,  — 

"Here  lie  the  bones  of  poor  piggy." 

Mrs.  Lucinda  burst  into  tears  ;  and  monsieur,  pick 
ing  a  bud  from  the  bush,  placed  it  in  her  hand,  and  led 
her  tenderly  back  to  the  rockaway. 

That  evening  Mrs.  Lucinda  was  telling  the  affair  to 
old  Israel  with  so  much  feeling,  that  she  did  not  per 
ceive  at  all  the  odd  commotion  in  his  face,  till,  as  she 
repeated  the  epitaph  to  him,  he  burst  out  with,  "He 
didn't  say  what  become  o'  the  flesh,  did  he?"  and 
therewith  fled  through  the  kitchen-door.  For  years 
afterward  Israel  would  entertain  a  few  favored  audi 
tors  with  his  opinion  of  the  matter,  screaming  till  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  — 

"  That  was  the  beateree  of  all  the  weddin'- towers  I 
ever  heerd  tell  on.  Goodness !  it's  enough  to  make 
the  Wanderin'  Jew  die  o'  larfin'." 


DELY'S   COW. 

I  WENT  down  to  the  farmyard  one  day  last  month ; 
and  as  I  opened  the  gate  I  heard  Pat  Malony  say, 
4 '  Biddy,  Biddy  !  "  I  thought  at  first  he  was  calling  a 
hen  ;  but  then  I  remembered  the  hens  were  all  shut  into 
the  poultry-house  that  day,  to  be  sorted,  and  numbered, 
and  condemned.  So  I  looked  again,  thinking  perhaps 
Pat's  little  lame  sister  had  strayed  up  from  the  village, 
and  gone  into  the  barn  after  Sylvy's  kittens,  or  a 
pigeon-egg,  or  to  see  a  new  calf ;  but,  to  my  surprise, 
I  saw  a  red  cow,  of  no  particular  beauty  or  breed, 
coming  out  of  the  stable-door,  looking  about  her  as  if  in 
search  of  somebody  or  something  ;  and  when  Pat  called 
again,  "Biddy,  Biddy,  Biddy!"  the  creature  walked 
up  to  him  across  the  yard,  stretched  out  her  awkward 
neck,  sniffed  a  little,  and  cropped  from  his  hand  the 
wisp  of  rowen  hay  he  held,  as  composedly  as  if  she 
were  a  tame  kitten,  and  then  followed  him  all  round 
the  yard  for  more,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  did  not 
get.  Pat  had  only  displayed  her  accomplishments  to 
astonish  me,  and  then  shut  her  in  her  stall  again.  I 
afterward  hunted  out  Biddy's  history,  and  here  it  is. 

On  the  Derby  turnpike,  just  before  you  enter  Haner- 
ford,  everybody  that  ever  travelled  that  road  will  re 
member  Joseph  German's  bakery.  It  was  a  red  brick 
house,  with  dusty  windows  toward  the  street,  and  just 
74 


DELY'S  cow.  75 

inside  the  door  a  little  shop,  where  Mr.  German  retailed 
the  scalloped  cookies,  fluted  gingerbread,  long  loaves 
of  bread,  and  scantily-filled  pies  in  which  he  dealt,  and 
which  were  manufactured  in  the  long  shop,  where  in 
summer  you  caught  glimpses  of  flour  barrels  all  a-row, 
and  men  who  might  have  come  out  of  those  barrels, 
so  strewed  with  flour  were  all  their  clothes,  —  paper 
cap  and  white  apron  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  rest  of  the  dress  as  far  as  color  and  dustiness  went. 
Here,  too,  when  her  father  drove  out  the  cart  every 
afternoon,  sitting  in  front  of  the  counter  with  her  sew 
ing  or  her  knitting,  Dely  German,  the  baker's  pretty 
daughter,  dealt  out  the  cakes,  and  rattled  the  pennies 
in  her  apron-pocket,  with  so  good  a  grace,  that  not  a 
young  farmer  came  into  Hanerford  with  grain,  or 
potatoes,  or  live-stock,  who  did  not  cast  a  glance  in  at 
the  shop-door  going  toward  town,  and  go  in  on  his 
return,  ostensibly  to  buy  a  sheet  of  gingerbread,  or  a 
dozen  cookies,  for  his  refreshment  on  the  drive  home 
ward.  It  was  a  curious  thing  to  see  how  much  hungrier 
they  were  on  the  way  home  than  coming  into  town. 
Though  they  might  have  had  a  good  dinner  in  Haner 
ford,  that  never  appeased  their  appetites  entirely ; 
while  in  the  morning  they  had  driven  their  slow  teams 
all  the  way  without  so  much  as  thinking  of  cakes  and 
cheese.  So  by  the  time  Dely  was  seventeen,  her  black 
eyes  and  bright  cheeks  were  well  known  for  miles 
about ;  and  many  a  youth,  going  home  to  the  clean 
kitchen  where  his  old  mother  sat  by  the  fire,  knitting, 
or  his  spinster  sister  scolded  and  scrubbed  over  his 
muddy  boot- tracks,  thought  how  pretty  it  would  look 
to  see  Dely  German  sitting  on  the  other  side,  in  her 
neat  calico  frock  and  white  apron,  her  black  hair 


76  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

shining  smooth,  and  her  fresh,  bright  face  looking  a 
welcome. 

But  Dely  did  not  think  about  any  one  of  them  in  a 
reciprocal  manner.  She  liked  them  all  pretty  well ;  but 
she  loved  nobody  except  her  father  and  mother,  her 
three  cats  and  all  their  kittens,  the  big  dog,  the  old 
horse,  and  a  wheezy  robin  that  she  kept  in  a  cage, 
because  her  favorite  cat  had  half  killed  it  one  day,  and 
it  never  could  fly  any  more.  For  all  these  dumb  things 
she  had  a  really  intense  affection.  As  for  her  father 
and  mother,  she  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  them  :  it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  they  could  leave  her,  or  she  them ; 
and  when  old  Joe  German  died  one  summer  day,  just 
after  Dely  was  seventeen,  she  was  nearly  distracted. 
However,  people  who  must  work  for  their  living  have 
to  get  over  their  sorrows  practically  much  sooner  than 
those  who  can  afford  time  to  indulge  them  ;  and,  as 
Dely  knew  more  about  the  business  and  the  shop  than 
anybody  but  the  foreman,  she  had  to  resume  her  place 
at  the  counter  before  her  father  had  been  buried  a 
week.  It  was  a  great  source  of  embarrassment  to  her 
rural  admirers  to  see  Dely  in  her  black  frock,  pale  and 
sober,  when  they  went  in.  They  did  not  know  what  to 
say:  they  felt  as  if  their  hands  and  feet  had  grown 
very  big  all  at  once,  and  as  if  the  cents  in  their  pockets 
never  could  be  got  at,  at  which  they  turned  red  and  hot, 
and  got  choked,  and  went  away,  swearing  internally 
at  their  own  blundering  shyness,  and  deeper  smitten 
than  ever  with  Dely,  because  they  wanted  to  comfort 
her  so  very  much,  and  didn't  know  how. 

One,  however,  had  the  sense  and  simplicity  to-  know 
how  ;  and  that  was  George  Adams,  a  fine,  healthy  young 
fellow  from  Hartland  Hollow,  who  came  in  at  least 


DELY'S  cow.  77 

once  a  week  with  a  load  of  produce  from  the  farm  on 
which  he  was  head  man.  The  first  time  he  went  after 
his  rations  of  gingerbread,  and  found  Dely  in  her 
mourning,  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  shook  hers  heartily. 
Dely  looked  up  into  his  honest  blue  eyes,  and  saw 
them  full  of  pity. 

"I'm  real  sorry  for  you,"  said  George.  "My 
father  died  two  years  ago." 

Dely  burst  into  tears ;  and  George  couldn't  help 
stroking  her  bright  hair  softly,  and  saying,  "Oh, 
don't!"  So  she  wiped  her  eyes,  and  sold  him  the 
cookies  he  wanted ;  but  from  that  day  there  was  one 
of  Dely's  customers  that  she  liked  best,  one  team  of 
white  horses  she  always  looked  out  for,  and  one  voice 
that  hurried  the  color  into  her  face  if  it  was  ever  so 
pale ;  and  the  upshot  of  pity  and  produce  and  ginger 
bread  was  that  George  Adams  and  Dely  German  were 
heartily  in  love  with  each  other,  and  Dely  began  to 
be  comforted  for  her  father's  loss  six  months  after  he 
died.  Not  that  she  knew  why,  or  that  George  had 
ever  said  any  thing  to  her  more  than  was  kind  and 
friendly ;  but  she  felt  a  sense  of  rest,  and  yet  a  sweet 
restlessness,  when  he  was  in  her  thoughts  or  presence, 
that  beguiled  her  grief,  and  made  her  unintentionally 
happy.  It  was  the  old,  old  story,  —  the  one  eternal 
novelty  that  never  loses  its  vitality,  its  interest,  its 
bewitching  power,  nor  ever  will  till  time  shall  be  no 
more. 

But  the  year  had  not  elapsed,  devoted  to  double 
crape  and  triple  quillings,  before  Dely's  mother,  too, 
began  to  be  consoled.  She  was  a  pleasant,  placid, 
feeble-natured  woman,  who  liked  her  husband  very 
well,  and  fretted  at  him  in  a  mild,  persistent  way  a 


78  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

good  deal.  He  swore,  and  chewed  tobacco,  which 
annoyed  her ;  he  also  kept  a  tight  grip  of  his  money, 
which  was  not  pleasant :  but  she  missed  him  very  much 
when  he  died,  and  cried  and  rocked,  and  said  how 
afflicted  she  was,  as  much  as  was  necessary,  even  in 
the  neighbors'  opinion.  But,  as  time  went  on,  she 
found  the  business  very  hard  to  manage  :  even  with  Dely 
and  the  foreman  to  help  her,  the  ledger  got  all  astray, 
and  the  day-book  followed  its  example.  So  when  old 
Tom  Kenyon,  who  kept  the  tavern  half  a  mile  farther 
out,  took  to  coming  Sunday  nights  to  see  the  "  Widder 
German,"  and  finally  proposed  to  share  her  troubles, 
and  carry  on  the  bakery  in  a  matrimonial  partnership, 
Mrs.  German  said  she  "guessed  she  would,"  and  an 
nounced  to  Dely  on  Monday  morning  that  she  was 
going  to  have  a  step-father.  Dely  was  astonished  and 
indignant,  but  to  no  purpose.  Mrs.  German  cried 
and  rocked,  and  rocked  and  cried  again,  rather  more 
saliently  than  when  her  husband  died.  But  for  all 
that  she  did  not  retract ;  and  in  due  time  she  got  into 
the  stage  with  her  elderly  lover,  and  went  to  Meriden, 
where  they  got  married,  and  came  home  next  day  to 
carry  on  the  bakery. 

Joe  German  had  been  foolish  enough  to  leave  all  his 
property  to  his  wife  ;  and  Dely  had  no  resource  but  to 
stay  at  home,  and  endure  her  disagreeable  position  as 
well  as  she  could,  for  Tom  Kenyon  swore  and  chewed, 
and  smoked  beside  :  moreover,  he  drank,  —  not  to  real 
drunkenness,  but  enough  to  make  him  cross  and  in 
tractable.  Worse  than  all,  he  had  a  son,  the  only  child 
of  his  first  marriage  ;  and  it  soon  became  unpleasantly 
evident  to  Dely,  that  Steve  Kenyon  had  a  mind  to 
marry  her,  and  his  father  had  a  mind  he  should.  Now, 


DELY'S  cow.  79 

it  is  all  very  well  to  marry  a  person  one  likes ;  but  to 
go  through  that  ceremony  with  one  you  dislike  is  more 
than  anybody  has  a  right  to  require,  in  my  opinion,  as 
well  as  Dely's  :  so  when  her  mother  urged  upon  her  the 
various  advantages  of  the  match,  —  Steve  Kenyon  being 
the  present  master  and  prospective  owner  of  his  father's 
tavern,  a  great  resort  for  horse- jockeys,  cattle-dealers, 
and  frequenters  of  state  and  county  fairs,  — Dely  still 
objected  to  marry  him.  But,  the  more  she  objected,  the 
more  her  mother  talked ;  her  step-father  swore ;  and 
the  swaggering  lover  persisted  in  his  attentions  at  all 
times  ;  so  that  the  poor  girl  had  scarce  a  half -hour  to 
herself.  She  grew  thin  and  pale  and  unhappy  enough  ; 
and  one  day  George  Adams,  stepping  in  unexpectedly, 
found  her  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  crying  most 
bitterly.  It  took  some  persuasion,  and  some  more 
daring  caresses  than  he  had  yet  ventured  on,  to  get 
Dely's  secret  trouble  to  light.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
George  kissed  her  at  least  once  before  she  would  tell 
him  what  she  was  crying  about.  But  Dely  naturally 
came  to  the  conclusion,  that  if  he  loved  her  enough  to 
kiss  her,  and  she  loved  him  enough  to  like  it,  she  might 
as  well  share  her  troubles  ;  and  the  consequence  was, 
George  asked  her  then  and  there  to  share  his.  Not 
that  either  of  them  thought  there  would  be  troubles 
under  that  copartnership,  for  the  day  was  sufficient  to 
them ;  and  it  did  not  daunt  Dely  in  the  least  to  know 
that  George's  only  possessions  were  a  heifer  calf,  a 
suit  of  clothes,  and  twenty  dollars. 

About  a  month  after  this  eventful  day,  Dely  went 
into  Hanerford  on  an  errand,  she  said :  so  did  George 
Adams.  They  stepped  into  the  minister's  together, 
and  were  married  :  so  Dely's  errand  was  done,  and  she 


80  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

rode  out  on  the  front-seat  of  George's  empty  wagon, 
stopping  at  the  bakery  to  tell  her  mother,  and  get  her 
trunk  ;  having  wisely  chosen  a  day  for  her  errand  when 
her  step-father  had  gone  away  after  a  load  of  flour 
down  to  Hanerford  wharves.  Mrs.  Kenyon  went  at 
once  into  wild  hysterics,  and  called  Dely  a  jade-hopper 
and  an  ungrateful  child.  But  not  understanding  the 
opprobrium  of  the  one  term,  and  not  deserving  the 
other,  the  poor  girl  only  cried  a  little,  and  helped 
George  with  her  trunk,  which  held  all  she  could  call 
her  own  in  the  world,  —  her  clothes,  two  or  three  cheap 
trinkets,  and  a  few  books.  She  kissed  the  cats  all 
round,  hugged  the  dog,  was  glad  her  robin  had  died, 
and  then  said  good-by  to  her  mother,  who  refused  to 
kiss  her,  and  said  George  Adams  was  a  snake  in  the 
grass.  This  was  too  much  for  Dely :  she  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  clambered  over  the  wagon- wheel,  and  took 
her  place  beside  George  with  a  smile  so  much  like  cry 
ing,  that  he  began  to  whistle,  and  never  stopped  for  two 
miles.  By  that  time  they  were  in  a  piece  of  thick  pine- 
woods,  when,  looking  both  before  and  behind  to  be 
certain  no  one  was  coming,  he  put  his  arm  round  his 
wife  and  kissed  her,  which  seemed  to  have  a  consoling 
effect ;  and,  by  the  time  they  reached  his  mother's  little 
house,  Dely  was  as  bright  as  ever. 

A  little  bit  of  a  house  it  was  to  bring  a  wife  to,  but 
it  suited  Dely.  It  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  pine-wood, 
where  the  fragrance  of  the  resinous  boughs  kept  the  air 
sweet  and  pure,  and  their  leaves  thrilled  responsive  to 
every  breeze.  The  house  was  very  small  and  very  red. 
It  had  two  rooms  below,  and  one  above  ;  but  it  was 
neater  than  many  a  five-story  mansion,  and  far  more 
cheerful.  And,  when  Dely  went  in  at  the  door,  she 


DELY'S  cow.  81 

thought  there  could  be  no  prettier  sight  than  the  ex 
quisitely  neat  old  woman  sitting  in  her  arm-chair  on 
one  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  her  beautiful  cat  on  the 
other,  purring  and  winking,  while  the  tea-kettle  sang 
and  sputtered  over  the  bright  fire  of  pine-cones,  and 
the  tea-table  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  was  spread 
with  such  clean  linen,  and  such  shining  crockery,  that 
it  made  one  hungry  even  to  look  at  the  brown-bread 
and  butter,  and  pink  radishes,  that  were  Dely's  wed 
ding-supper. 

It  is  very  odd  how  happy  people  can  be  when  they 
are  as  poor  as  poverty,  and  don't  know  where  to  look 
for  their  living,  but  to  the  work  of  their  own  hands. 
Genteel  poverty  is  horrible.  It  is  impossible  for  one  to 
be  poor  and  elegant,  and  comfortable  ;  but  downright, 
simple,  unblushing  poverty  may  be  the  most  blessed  of 
states.  And  though  it  was  somewhat  of  a  descent  in 
the  social  scale  for  Dely  to  marry  a  farm-hand,  fore 
man  though  he  might  be,  she  loved  her  George  so 
devoutly  and  healthily,  that  she  was  as  happy  as  a 
woman  could  be.  George's  mother,  the  sweetest  and 
tenderest  mother  to  him,  took  his  wife  to  a  place  beside 
his  in  her  heart ;  and  the  two  women  loved  each  other 
the  more  for  this  man's  sake.  He  was  a  bond  between 
them,  not  a  division.  Hard  work  left  them  no  thought 
of  rankling  jealousy  to  make  their  lives  bitter ;  and 
Dely  was  happier  than  ever  she  had  thought  she  should 
be  away  from  her  mother.  Nor  did  the  hard  work  hurt 
her ;  for  she  took  to  her  own  share  all  of  it  that  was 
out  of  doors,  and  troublesome  to  the  infirmities  of  the 
old  lady.  She  tended  the  calf  in  its  little  log-hut, 
shook  down  the  coarse  hay  for  its  bed,  made  its  gruel 
till  it  grew  beyond  gruel,  then  drove  it  daily  to  the 


82 


pasture  where  it  fed,  gave  it  extra  rations  of  bread  and 
apple-parings  and  carrot- tops,  till  the  creature  knew 
her  voice,  and  ran  to  her  call  like  a  pet  kitten,  rubbing 
its  soft,  wet  nose  against  her  red  cheek,  and  showing 
in  a  dozen  blundering,  'Garfish  ways  that  it  both  knew 
and  loved  her. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  people  in  the  world,  — those 
who  love  animals,  and  those  who  do  not.  I  have  seen 
them  both,  I  have  known  both ;  and  if  sick  or  op 
pressed,  or  borne  down  with  dreadful  sympathies  for  a 
groaning  nation  in  mortal  struggle,  I  should  go  for  aid, 
for  pity,  or  the  relief  of  kindred  feeling,  to  those  I  had 
seen  touched  with  quick  tenderness  for  the  lower  crea 
tion,  who  remember  that  the  "  whole  creation  travaileth 
in  pain  together,"  and  who  learn  God's  own  lesson  of 
caring  for  the  fallen  sparrow,  and  the  ox  that  treadeth 
out  the  corn.  With  men  or  women  who  despise  ani 
mals,  and  treat  them  as  mere  beasts  and  brutes,  I  never 
want  to  trust  my  weary  heart  or  my  aching  head.  But 
with  Dely  I  could  have  trusted  both  safely ;  and  the 
calf  and  the  cat  agreed  with  me. 

So,  in  this  happy,  homely  life,  the  sweet  centre  of 
her  own  bright  little  world,  Dely  passed  the  first  year 
of  her  wedded  life,  and  then  the  war  came !  Dread 
ful  pivot  of  so  many  lives  !  —  on  it  also  this  rude  idyl 
turned.  George  enlisted  for  the  war. 

It  was  not  in  Dely  or  his  mother  to  stop  him. 
Though  tears  fell  on  every  round  of  his  blue  socks,  and 
sprinkled  his  flannel  shirts  plentifully ;  though  the  old 
woman's  wan  and  wrinkled  face  paled  and  saddened, 
and  the  young  one's  fair  throat  quivered  with  choking 
sobs  when  they  were  alone ;  still,  whenever  George 
appeared,  he  was  greeted  with  smiles  and  cheer, 


DELY'S  cow.  83 

strengthened  and  steadied  from  this  home  armory 
better  than  with  sabre  and  bayonet,  —  "  with  might  in 
the  inner  man."  George  was  a  brave  fellow,  no  doubt, 
and  would  do  good  service  to  his  free  country ;  but  it 
is  a  question  with  me,  whether,  when  the  Lord  calls  out 
his  ' '  noble  army  of  martyrs ' '  before  the  universe  of 
men  and  angels,  that  army  will  not  be  found  officered 
and  led  by  just  such  women  as  these,  who  fought 
silently  with  the  flesh  and  the  Devil  by  their  own 
hearth,  quickened  by  no  stinging  excitement  of  battle, 
no  thrill  of  splendid  strength  and  fury  in  soul  and 
body,  no  tempting  delight  of  honor  or  even  recognition 
from  their  peers,  upheld  only  by  the  dull,  recurrent 
necessities  of  duty  and  love. 

At  any  rate,  George  went,  and  they  staid.  The 
town  made  them  an  allowance  as  a  volunteer's  family ; 
they  had  George's  bounty  to  begin  with  ;  and  a  friendly 
boy  from  the  farm  near  by  came  and  sawed  their  wood, 
took  care  of  the  garden,  and,  when  Dely  could  not  go 
to  pasture  with  the  heifer,  drove  her  to  and  fro  daily. 

After  George  had  been  gone  three  months,  Dely  had 
a  little  baby.  Tiny  and  bright  as  it  was,  it  seemed 
like  a  small  star  fallen  down  from  some  upper  sky  to 
lighten  their  darkness.  Dely  was  almost  too  happy ; 
and  the  old  grandmother,  fast  slipping  into  that  other 
world  whence  baby  seemed  to  have  but  newly  arrived, 
stayed  her  feeble  steps  a  little  longer  to  wait  upon  her 
son's  child.  Yet,  for  all  the  baby,  Dely  never  forgot 
her  dumb  loves.  The  cat  had  still  its  place  on  the 
foot  of  her  bed ;  and  her  first  walk  was  to  the  barn, 
where  the  heifer  lowed  welcome  to  her  mistress,  and 
rubbed  her  head  against  the  hand  that  caressed  her, 
with  as  much  feeling  as  a  cow  can  show,  however 


84  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

much  she  may  have.  And  Biddy  the  heifer  was  a 
good  friend  to  that  little  household  all  through  that 
long  ensuing  winter.  It  went  to  Dely's  heart  to  sell 
her  first  calf  to  the  butcher ;  but  they  could  not  raise 
it :  and  when  it  was  taken  away  she  threw  her  check 
apron  over  her  head,  and  buried  her  face  deep  in  the 
pillow,  that  she  might  not  hear  the  cries  of  appeal  and 
grief  her  favorite  uttered.  After  this,  Biddy  would 
let  no  one  milk  her  but  her  mistress  ;  and  many  an 
inarticulate  confidence  passed  between  the  two  while 
the  sharp  streams  of  milk  spun  and  foamed  into  the 
pail  below,  as  Dely's  skilful  hands  coaxed  it  down. 

They  heard  from  George  often.  He  was  well,  and 
busy  with  drill  and  camp  life, — not  in  active  service 
as  yet.  Incidentally,  too,  Dely  heard  of  her  mother. 
Old  Kenyon  was  dead  of  apoplexy,  and  Steve  like  to 
die  of  drink.  This  was  a  bit  of  teamster's  gossip,  but 
proved  to  be  true.  Toward  the  end  of  the  winter,  old 
Mother  Adams  slept  quietly  in  the  Lord.  No  pain  or 
sickness  grasped  her,  though  she  knew  she  was  dying, 
kissed  and  blessed  Dely,  sent  a  mother's  message  to 
George,  and  took  the  baby  for  the  last  time  into  her 
arms ;  then  she  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow,  smiled, 
and  drew  a  long  breath  —  no  more. 

Poor  Dely's  life  was  very  lonely.  She  buried  her 
dead  out  of  her  sight,  wrote  a  loving,  sobbing  letter  to 
George,  and  began  to  try  to  live  alone.  Hard  enough 
it  was.  March  revenged  itself  on  the  past  toleration 
of  winter :  snow  fell  in  blinding  fury ;  and  drifts  hid 
the  fences,  and  fenced  the  doors,  all  through  Hartland 
Hollow.  Day  after  day  Dely  struggled  through  the 
path  to  the  barii  to  feed  Biddy,  and  milk  her ;  and  a 
warm  mess  of  bread  and  milk  often  formed  her  only 


DELY'S  cow.  85 

meal  in  that  bitter  weather.  It  is  not  credible  to 
those  who  think  no  more  of  animals  than  of  chairs  and 
stones,  how  much  society  and  solace  they  afford  to 
those  who  do  love  them.  Biddy  was  really  Dely's 
friend.  Many  a  long  day  passed  when  no  human  face 
but  the  baby's  greeted  her  from  dawn  till  dusk.  But 
the  cow's  beautiful  purple  eyes  always  turned  to  wel 
come  her  as  she  entered  its  shed-door  ;  her  wet  muzzle 
touched  Dely's  cheek  with  a  velvet  caress  ;  and,  while 
her  mistress  drew  from  the  downy  bag  its  white  and 
rich  stores,  Biddy  would  turn  her  head  round,  and  eye 
her  with  such  mild  looks,  and  breathe  such  fragrance 
toward  her,  that  Dely,  in  her  solitary  and  friendless 
state,  came  to  regard  her  as  a  real  sentient  being,  capa 
ble  of  love  and  sympathy,  and  had  an  affection  for  her 
that  would  seem  utter  nonsense  to  half,  perhaps  three- 
quarters,  of  the  people  in  this  unsentimental  world. 
Many  a  time  did  the  lonely  little  woman  lay  her  head 
on  Biddy's  neck,  and  talk  to  her  about  George,  with 
sobs  and  silences  interspersed ;  and  many  a  piece  of 
dry  bread  steeped  in  warm  water,  or  golden  carrot,  or 
mess  of  stewed  turnips  and  bran,  flavored  the  dry  hay 
that  was  the  staple  of  the  cow's  diet.  The  cat  was 
old  now,  and  objected  to  the  baby  so  strenuously,  that 
Dely  regarded  her  as  partly  insane  from  age  ;  and 
though  she  was  kind  to  her  of  course,  and  fed  her 
faithfully,  still  a  cat  that  could  growl  at  George's  baby 
was  not  regarded  with  the  same  complacent  kindness 
that  had  always  blessed  her  before  ;  and,  whenever  the 
baby  was  asleep  at  milking-time,  pussy  was  locked  into 
the  closet, — a  proceeding  she  resented.  Biddy,  on 
the  contrary,  seemed  to  admire  the  child, — she  cer 
tainly  did  not  object  to  her,  —  and  necessarily  obtained 


86  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

thereby  a  far  higher  place  in  Dely's  heart  than  the 
cat. 

As  I  have  already  said,  Dely  had  heard  of  her  step 
father's  death  some  time  before  ;  and  one  stormy  day, 
the  last  week  in  March,  a  team  coming  from  Haner- 
ford  with  grain  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  little  red 
house,  and  the  driver  handed  Dely  a  dirty  and  ill- 
written  letter  from  her  mother.  Just  such  an  epistle 
it  was  as  might  have  been  expected  from  Mrs.  Keuyon, 
—  full  of  weak  sorrow,  and  entreaties  to  Dely  to  come 
home  and  live  :  she  was  old  and  tired  ;  the  bakery  was 
coming  to  trouble  for  want  of  a  good  manager ;  the 
foreman  was  a  rogue,  and  the  business  failing  fast, 
and  she  wanted  George  and  Dely  there.  Evidently  she 
had  not  heard,  when  the  letter  began,  of  George's  de 
parture,  or  baby's  birth  ;  but  the  latter  half  said,  "Cum 
anyway.  I  want  to  se  the  baby.  Ime  an  old  critur 
a-sinking  into  my  graiv,  and  when  george  cums  back 
from  the  wars  he  must  liv  hear  the  rest  off  his  life." 

Dely's  tender  heart  was  greatly  stirred  by  the  letter, 
yet  she  was  undecided  what  to  do.  Here  she  was, 
alone  and  poor  ;  there  would  be  her  mother,  —  and  she 
loved  her  mother,  though  she  could  not  respect  her ; 
there,  too,  was  plenty  for  all :  and,  if  George  should 
ever  come  home,  the  bakery  business  was  just  the 
thing  for  him  ;  he  had  energy  and  courage  enough  to 
redeem  a  sinking  affair  like  that.  But  then  what 
should  she  do  with  the  cow  ?  Puss  could  go  home  with 
her ;  but  Biddy  ?  —  there  was  no  place  for  Biddj7. 
Pasture  was  scarce  and  dear  about  Hanerford  :  Dely's 
father  had  given  up  keeping  a  cow  long  before  his 
death  for  that  reason.  But  how  could  Dely  leave  and 
sell  her  faithful  friend  and  companion?  Her  heart 


DELY'S  cow.  87 

sank  at  the  thought :  it  almost  turned  the  scale,  for 
one  pitiful  moment,  against  common  sense  and  filial 
feeling.  But  baby  coughed,  nothing  more  than  a 
slight  cold ;  yet  Dely  thought,  as  she  had  often 
thought  before,  with  a  quick  thrill  of  terror,  What  if 
baby  were  ever  sick?  Seven  miles  between  her  and 
the  nearest  doctor ;  nobody  to  send,  nobody  to  leave 
baby  with,  and  she  herself  utterly  inexperienced  in  the 
care  of  children.  The  matter  was  decided  at  once ; 
and,  before  the  driver  who  brought  her  mother's  letter 
had  come  on  his  next  journey  for  the  answer  he  had 
offered  to  carry,  Dely's  letter  was  written,  sealed,  and 
put  on  the  shelf,  and  she  was  busy  contriving  and 
piecing  out  a  warm  hood  and  cloak  for  baby  to  ride  in. 
But  every  time  she  went  to  the  barn  to  milk  Biddy, 
or  feed  her,  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  and  her  mind 
misgave  her.  Never  before  had  the  dainty  bits  of  food 
been  so  plentiful  for  her  pet,  or  her  neck  so  tenderly 
stroked.  Dely  had  written  to  her  mother  that  she 
would  come  to  her  as  soon  as  her  affairs  were  settled, 
and  she  had  spoken  to  Orrin  Nye,  who  brought  the 
letter,  to  find  a  purchaser  for  her  cow.  Grandfather 
Hollis,  who  bought  Biddy,  and  in  whose  farmyard  I 
made  her  acquaintance,  gave  me  the. drover's  account 
of  the  matter,  which  will  be  better  in  his  words  than 
mine.  It  seems  he  brought  quite  a  herd  of  milch  cows 
down  to  Avondale,  which  is  twenty  miles  from  Haner- 
ford,  and,  hearing  that  grandfather  wanted  a  couple  of 
cows,  he  came  to  "trade  with  him,"  as  he  expressed 
it.  He  had  two  beautiful  Ayrshires  in  the  lot,  —  clean 
heads,  shining  skins,  and  good  milkers,  — that  mightily 
pleased  the  old  gentleman's  fancy ;  for  he  had  long 
brooded  over  his  favorite  scheme  of  a  pure-blooded 


88  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

herd,  and  the  red-and-white-clouded  Ayrshires  showed 
beautifully  on  his  green  hillside  pastures,  and  were 
good  stock  besides.  But  Aaron  Stow  insisted  so  per 
tinaciously  that  he  should  buy  this  red  cow,  that  the 
squire  shoved  his  hat  back,  and  put  both  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  a  symptom  of  determination  with  him,  and 
began  to  question  him.  They  fenced  a  while  in  true 
Yankee  fashion,  till  at  last  grandfather  became  exas 
perated. 

"Look,  here,  Aaron  Stow!"  said  he,  "what  in 
thunder  do  you  pester  me  so  about  that  cow  for? 
She's  a  good  enough  beast,  I  see,  for  a  native  ;  but 
those  Ayrshires  are  better  cows  and  better  blood,  and 
you  know  it.  What  are  you  navigating  round  me  for 
so  glib?" 

"Well,  now,  squire,"  returned  Aaron,  whittling  at 
the  gate  with  sudden  vehemence,  "  fact  is,  I've  set  my 
mind  on  your  buyin'  that  critter,  an'  you  jes'  set  down 
on  that  'ere  milkin'-stool,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  the  rights 
on't,  though  I  feel  kinder  meechin'  myself,  to  be  so 
soft  about  it  as  I  be." 

"Leave  off  shaving  my  new  gate,  then,  and  don't 
think  I'm  going  to  trust  a  hundred  and  eighty-five  solid 
flesh  to  a  three-legged  stool.  I'm  too  old  for  that. 
I'll  sit  on  the  step  here.  Now  go  ahead,  man." 

So  grandfather  sat  down  on  the  step,  and  Aaron 
turned  his  back  against  the  gate,  and  kicked  one  boot 
on  the  other.  He  was  not  used  to  narration. 

"  Well,  you  know  we  had  a  dreadful  spell  o'  weather 
a  mouth  ago,  squire.  There  ha'n't  never  been  such  a 
March  in  my  day  as  this  last ;  an'  'twas  worse  up  our 
way' n  'twas  here ;  an'  down  to  Hartland  Holler  was 
the  beat  of  all.  Why,  it  snowed,  an'  it  Mowed,  an'  it 


DELY'S  cow.  89 

friz,  till  all  natur'  couldn't  stan'  it  no  more.  Well, 
about  them  days  I  was  down  to  Hartland  Centre 
a-buyin'  some  fat  cattle  for  Hanerford  market ;  an'  I 
met  Orrin  Nye  drivin'  his  team  pretty  spry,  for  he  see 
it  was  comin'  on  to  snow  ;  but,  when  he  catched  sight 
o'  me,  he  stopped  the  horses,  an'  hollered  out  to  me : 
so  I  stepped  along,  an'  asked  what  he  wanted.  An'  he 
said  there  was  a  woman  down  to  the  Holler  that  had  a 
cow  to  sell,  an'  he  knowed  I  was  apt  to  buy  cow- critters 
along  in  the  spring,  so  he'd  spoke  about  it,  for  she  was 
kinder  in  a  hurry  to  sell,  for  she  was  goin'  to  move. 
So  I  said  I'd  see  to't,  an'  he  driv  along.  I  thought 
likely  I  should  git  it  cheap,  ef  she  was  in  a  hurry  to 
sell,  an'  I  concluded  I'd  go  along  next  day :  'twa'n't 
more'n  seven  mile  from  the  Centre,  down  by  a  piece 
o'  piny  woods,  an'  the  woman  was  Miss  Adams.  I 
used  ter  know  George  Adams  quite  a  spell  ago,  an'  he 
was  a  likely  feller.  Well,  it  come  on  to  snow  jest  as 
fine  an'  dry  as  sand,  an'  the  wind  blew  like  needles  ; 
an'  come  next  day,  when  I  started  to  foot  it  down 
there,  I  didn't  feel  as  though  I  could  ha'  gone  ef  I 
hadn't  been  sure  of  a  good  bargain.  The  snow  hadn't 
driv  much,  but  the  weather  had  settled  down  dreadful 
cold :  'twas  dead  still,  an'  the  air  sorter  cut  ye  to 
breathe  it ;  but  I'm  naterally  hardy,  an'  I  kep'  along 
till  I  got  there.  I  didn't  feel  so  all-fired  cold  as  I  hev 
sometimes  ;  but  when  I  stepped  in  to  the  door,  an'  she 
asked  me  to  hev  a  cheer  by  the  fire,  fust  I  knew  I 
didn't  know  nothin'  :  I  come  to  the  floor  like  a  felled 
ox.  I  expect  I  must  ha'  been  nigh  on  to  dead  with 
clear  cold,  for  she  was  the  best  part  o'  ten  minutes 
bringin'  on  me  to.  She  rubbed  my  hands  an'  face 
with  camphire,  an'  gin  me  some  hot  tea.  She  hadn't 


90 


got  no  sperits  in  the  house ;  but  she  did  every  thing  a 
little  woman  could  do,  an'  I  was  warmed  through  an' 
through  afore  long,  an'  we  stepped  out  into  the  shed  to 
look  at  the  cow. 

"Well,  squire,  I  ha'n't  got  much  natur'  into  me 
noway,  an'  it's  well  I  ha'n't ;  but  that  cow  beat  all,  I 
declare  for't !  She  put  her  head  round  the  minute 
Miss  Adams  come  in;  an',  if  ever  you  see  a  dumb 
beast  pleased,  that  'ere  cow  was  tickled  to  pieces.  She 
put  her  nose  down  to  the  woman's  cheek,  an'  she  licked 
her  hands,  an'  she  moved  up  agin'  her,  an'  rubbed  her 
ear  on  her :  she  all  but  talked.  An'  when  I  looked 
round,  an'  see  them  black  eyes  o'  Miss  Adams's  with 
wet  in  'em,  I  'most  wished  I  had  a  pocket-handker- 
cher  myself . 

"  '  You  won't  sell  her  to  a  hard  master,  will  you? ' 
says  she.  '  I  want  her  to  go  where  she'll  be  well  cared 
for,  an'  I  shall  know  where  she  is  ;  for,  if  ever  things 
comes  right  agin,  I  want  to  hev  her  back.  She's  been 
half  my  livin'  an'  all  my  company  for  quite  a  spell,  an' 
I  shall  miss  her  dreadfully.' 

"'Well,'  says  I,  'I'll  take  her  down  to  Squire 
Hollis's  in  Avondale  :  he's  got  a  cow-barn  good  enough 
for  a  representative  to  set  in,  an'  clean  water,  an' 
chains  to  halter  'em  up  with,  an'  a  dry  yard  where  the 
water  all  dreens  off  as  slick  as  can  be  ;  an'  there  a'n't 
such  a  piece  o'  land  nowhere  round  for  root- crops  ;  an' 
the  squire  he  sets  such  store  by  his  cows  an'  things, 
I've  heerd  tell  he  turned  off  two  Irishmen  for  abusin' 
on  'em ;  an'  they  has  their  bags  washed,  an'  their  tails 
combed,  every  day  in  the  year,  an'  I  don't  know  but 
what  they  ties  'em  up  with  a  blew  ribbin.'  ' 

"Get  out !  "  growled  grandfather. 


DELY'S  cow.  91 

"Can't,  jest  yet,  squire,  not  till  I've  done.  Any 
way,  I  figgered  it  off  to  her,  an'  she  was  kinder  con 
soled  up  to  think  on't ;  for  I  told  her  I  thought  likely 
you'd  buy  her  cow.  An'  when  we  come  to  do  the 
tradin'  part,  why,  con-found  it !  she  wa'n't  no  more  fit 
to  buy  an'  sell  a  critter  than  my  three-year-old  Hepsy. 
I  said  a  piece  back  I  ha'n't  got  much  natur',  an'  a  man 
that  trades  dumb  beasts  the  biggest  part  o'  the  time 
hedn't  oughter  hev  ;  but  I  swan  to  man  !  natur'  was  too 
much  for  me  this  time.  I  couldn't  no  more  ha'  bought 
that  cow  cheap  than  I  could  ha'  sold  my  old  gran'ther 
to  a  tin-peddler.  Somehow,  she  was  so  innocent,  an' 
she  felt  so  to  part  with  the  critter,  an'  then  she  let  me 
know't  George  was  in  the  army  ;  an'  thinks  I,  I  guess 
I'll  help  the  gov'ment  along  some  :  I  can't  fight,  'cause 
I'm  subject  to  rheumatiz  in  my  back,  but  I  can  look 
out  for  them  that  can  :  so,  take  the  hull  on't,  long  an' 
broad,  why,  I  up  an'  gin  her  seventy-five  dollars  for 
that  cow,  an'  I'd  ha'  gin  twenty  more  not  to  ha'  seen 
Miss  Adams's  face  a-lookin'  arter  me  an'  her  when  we 
went  away  from  the  door. 

"  So  now,  squire,  you  can  take  her,  or  leave  her." 

Aaron  Stow  knew  his  man.  Squire  Hollis  pulled 
out  his  pocket-book,  and  paid  seventy-five  dollars  on 
the  spot  for  a  native  cow  called  Biddy. 

' '  Now  clear  out  with  your  Ayrshires  ! ' '  said  he 
irascibly.  "  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  won't  buy  them  too." 

"  Well,  squire,  good-day,"  said  Aaron  with  a  grin. 

But  I  am  credibly  informed  that  the  next  week  he 
did  come  back  with  the  two  Ayrshires,  and  sold  them 
to  grandfather,  remarking  to  the  farmer,  that  he 
"  should  ha'  been  a  darned  fool  to  take  the  old  gentle 
man  at  his  word ;  for  he  never  knowed  a  man  hanker 


92  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

arter  harnsome  stock,  but  what  he  bought  it  fust  or 
last." 

Now  I  also  discovered  that  the  regiment  George  en 
listed  in  was  one  whose  colonel  I  knew  well :  so  I 
wrote,  and  asked  about  Sergeant  Adams.  My  report 
was  highly  honorable  to  George,  but  had  some  bad 
news  in  it :  he  had  been  severely  wounded  in  the  right 
leg,  and,  though  recovering,  would  be  disabled  from 
further  service.  A  fortnight  after,  I  drove  into  Haner- 
ford  with  Grandfather  Hollis,  and  we  stopped  at  the 
old  bakery.  It  looked  exquisitely  neat  in  the  shop,  as 
well  as  prosperous  externally,  and  Dely  stood  behind 
the  counter  with  a  lovely  child  in  her  arms.  Grand 
father  bought  about  half  a  bushel  of  crackers  and 
cookies,  while  I  played  with  the  baby.  As  he  paid  for 
them,  he  said  in  his  kind  old  voice,  that  nobody  can 
hear  without  pleasure,  — 

' '  I  believe  I  have  a  pet  of  yours  in  my  barn  at 
Avondale,  Mrs.  Adams." 

Dely's  eyes  lighted  up,  and  a  quick  flush  of  feeling 
glowed  on  her  pretty  face. 

' '  O  sir !  you  did  buy  Biddy,  then  ?  And  you  are 
Squire  Hollis  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  and  Biddy  is  well,  and  well  cared  for, 
—  as  fat  and  sleek  as  a  mole,  and  still  comes  to  her 
name." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  sir!"  said  Dely,  with  an  em 
phasis  that  gave  the  simple  phrase  most  earnest  mean 
ing. 

"And  how  is  your  husband,  Mrs.  Adams?  "  said  I. 

A  deeper  glow  displaced  the  fading  blush  grand 
father  had  called  out,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  flashed  at 
me. 


DELY'S  cow.  93 

"Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  and  not  so  very  lame. 
And  he's  coming  home  next  week." 

She  took  the  baby  from  me  as  she  spoke,  and,  look 
ing  in  its  bright  little  face,  said,  — 

"Call  him,  baby." 

"  Pa-pa  !  "  said  the  child. 

"  If  ever  you  come  to  Avondale,  Mrs.  Adams,  come 
and  see  my  cows,"  said  grandfather  as  he  gathered  up 
the  reins.  "You  may  be  sure  I  won't  sell  Biddy  to 
anybody  but  you." 

Dely  smiled  from  the  steps  where  she  stood  ;  and  we 
drove  away. 


SQUIRE   PAINE'S   CONVERSION. 

SAMUEL  PAINE  was  a  hard-headed,  "  hard-fe'tured" 
Yankee  boy,  who  grew  up  in  the  old  homestead  with 
out  brothers  or  sisters. 

Had  any  of  those  means  of  grace  shared  his  joys 
and  sorrows,  perhaps  his  nature  would  have  been  modi 
fied  ;  but  he  was  sole  heir  of  the  few  rugged  acres, 
scant  pasturage  for  the  old  red  cow,  and  the  bit  of 
' '  medder-land ' '  that  reluctantly  gave  corn  and  rye 
and  potatoes  enough  for  the  household,  and  barely  hay 
sufficient  to  winter  the  cow  and  the  venerable  horse 
that  belonged  to  old  Dibble  Paine,  Samuel's  father. 
Now,  in  such  a  case  it  is  slave  or  starve  in  New  Eng 
land.  Hard  work  is  the  initial  lesson.  Samuel's 
youth  of  labor  began  early.  At  three  years  old,  in 
brief  garments  of  yellow  flannel,  and  a  flaxen  thatch 
of  hair  for  head- covering,  he  toddled  in  and  out  of  the 
kitchen  with  chips  in  a  basket ;  he  fed  the  chickens  ; 
he  rode  in  the  hay- wagon,  and  was,  moreover,  ruled 
already  with  a  rod  of  iron,  or  rather  a  stout  shingle, 
which  hung  ready  to  hand  by  the  chimney-piece.  At 
seven  the  Assembly's  Catechism  was  drilled  into 
him,  and  he  trudged  daily  a  mile  and  back  to  the  red 
schoolhouse,  doing  "chores"  at  every  odd  interval; 
getting  up  by  daylight  in  summer,  and  long  before  in 
winter,  to  fetch  and  carry  for  the  poor,  pale  woman 
94 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  95 

who  was  wife  and  mother  in  that  meagre  household  ; 
going  to  meeting  Sundays  as  faithfully  as  Parson 
Wires  himself ;  and  in  the  course  of  years  growing  up 
to  be  a  goodly  youth,  saving,  industrious,  correct,  per 
fectly  self-satisfied,  and  conscious  of  his  own  merits 
and  other  people's  demerits. 

But  the  course  of  years  takes  as  well  as  gives. 
When  Samuel  was  twenty,  he  was  fatherless  and  moth 
erless.  The  old  farm  was  let  on  shares  ;  and  behind 
the  counter  of  a  country  store  in  Bassett  he  dealt  out 
with  strict  justice  —  to  his  employer  —  scant  yards  of 
calico,  even  measures  of  grass-seed,  small  pounds 
of  groceries,  weakly  rum,  sugar  not  too  sweet,  and 
many  other  necessities  of  life  in  the  same  proportion. 
Old  Si  Jones  never  had  so  thrifty  a  clerk,  never  made 
so  much  money  in  the  same  time,  and  never  had  so 
few  loungers  about.  In  due  time  Samuel  experienced 
religion,  — or  said  he  did,  —  was  duly  examined,  glibly 
reeled  off  his  inward  exercises  to  the  admiring  deacons, 
and  at  the  proper  season  was  propounded,  and  admitted 
to  the  church  in  Bassett.  He  had  always  been  a 
strictly  moral  young  man,  and  a  sober  one  ;  not  in  the 
sense  of  temperance,  but  sober  in  habit  and  manner. 

Samuel  Paine  never  indulged  in  those  youthful  gaye- 
ties  that  so  many  boys  rejoice  in.  He  did  not  waste 
his  hard-earned  substance  in  riotous  picnics,  husking- 
frolics,  boat-rides,  or  sleighing-parties  ;  he  never  used 
tobacco  in  any  form,  never  drank  cider,  or  "  waited  " 
on  any  girl  in  Bassett,  though  there  was  the  usual 
feminine  surplus  of  a  New-England  village  in  this  one. 
In  the  evening  he  read  law  diligently  in  Squire  Lar- 
kin's  office,  because  he  thought  it  might  be  useful  to 
him  hereafter.  He  sat  in  the  singers'  seat  in  the  meet- 


96  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

ing-liouse,  his  straight,  long  face,  cold  gray  eyes, 
sleek  light  hair,  and  immaculate  linen,  looking  re 
spectable  enough  for  a  whole  congregation.  He  had 
a  class  in  Sunday  school, — a  class  of  big  girls,  all  of 
whom  hated  him  thoroughly,  but  never  dared  own  it. 
Armed  with  "Barnes's  Notes"  and  "  Cruden's  Con 
cordance,"  he  did  his  duty  to  his  class  in  explaining 
and  expounding  the  doctrine  of  the  lesson ;  but,  while 
he  impressed  the  letter  on  their  minds,  the  sweet  and 
living  spirit  never  lit  his  cool  eye,  or  warmed  his  accu 
rate  speech.  Whatever  else  those  young  girls  learned 
of  Samuel  Paine,  they  never  learned  to  love  the  Lord 
or  his  words  ;  for  he  knew  not  how  to  teach  them.  His 
soul  had  never  y^et  found  its  level,  had  never  had  the 
lesson  that  comes  to  us  all  some  time  in  our  lives, 
whether  we  accept  it  or  not ;  and  he  went  on  in  his  own 
narrow  way  without  let  or  hinderance. 

Before  Samuel  was  twenty-five,  Si  Jones  retired  from 
business  in  Bassett,  being  persuaded  by  his  wife  to 
remove  into  Vermont,  where  her  friends  lived.  He 
had  made  a  good  deal  of  money ;  and  being  childless, 
and  well  under  his  wife's  thumb,  she  had  induced  him 
to  sell  out,  and  go  back  to  her  old  home.  Now  came 
the  time  Samuel  Paine  had  long  looked  for.  He  had 
saved,  spared,  pinched,  to  this  end.  He  bought  out 
the  store  and  the  small  frame-house  that  contained  it, 
—  a  house  with  two  rooms  up  stairs,  and  a  kitchen  in 
the  little  wing,  Part  of  the  money  he  paid  down  in 
cash,  part  borrowed  on  a  mortgage  :  the  rest  he  was 
forced  to  give  notes  for. 

"•  Well,"  said  'Bijah  Jones,  a  far-off  cousin  of  Si's, 
and  the  village  loafer  and  joker,  "  guess  folks'll  hev  to 
keep  their  eyes  peeled  now.  I  tell  ye,  Samwell  Paine 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  97 

beats  the  Dutch  to  drive  a  bargain.  Ye  won't  know 
where  ye  be,  fust  ye  know  any  thing.  He'll  sell  ye  a 
pair  o'  store  pants  in  five  minnits,  when  ye  don't  want 
'em  no  more'n  a  toad  wants  a  pocket." 

' '  Dew  tell ! ' '  sputtered  old  Grandsir  Baker,  who  had 
just  come  over  from  the  town-house  with  a  hank  of 
yarn  to  trade  off  for  some  molasses.  "Well,  well, 
well!  Hows'ever,  he  can't  sell  me  nothin',  cos  I 
hain't  got  no  money.  Ye  can't  get  blood  outen  a  stun, 
nohow.  He,  he,  he  !  " 

"  Blessed  be  nothin'  !  "  dryly  put  in  'Bijah. 

And  all  this  while  Samuel  was  announcing  his  prin 
ciples  in  the  store  to  a  knot  of  farmers  and  village 
worthies  come  in  for  their  weekly  supplies  for  the  first 
time  since  S.  Paine's  name  had  been  seen  above  the 
door. 

"Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir !  I've  cleaned  up  consider'ble. 
I  hope  to  clear  up  more.  I  'xpect  to  conduct  this 
business  on  a  line,  gentlemen,  —  a  straight  line,  so  to 
speak,  seemin'ly,  as  it  were.  There  ain't  no  rewl  better 
for  all  things  than  the  Golden  Rewl.  That  contains 
the  sperrit  and  principle  of  the  hull  thing :  do's  you'd 
like  ter  be  done  by.  That's  my  idee  in  short  partikelar 
metre." 

A  dry,  rattling  laugh  emphasized  this  conclusion, 
and  a  sort  of  unwilling  "Haw,  haw!"  chorussed  it 
from  the  audience.  'Bijah  Jones  had  drawn  near 
enough  to  the  open  door  to  hear  part  of  the  sentence, 
and  grinned  widely. 

"  Come  along,  grandsir,"  shouted  he  to  the  hobbling 
old  fellow  from  the  poor-house.  "  Strike  while  th* 
iron's  hot.  He's  talking  Scripter  with  all  fury  :  naow's 
your  time  to  swop  that  air  yarn.  Bet  you'll  git  a  hull 
cask  o'  'lasses  !  " 


98  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Grandsir  Baker  did  not  quicken  his  halting  pace  for 
this  advice,  and  it  is  not  on  record  that  he  got  any 
more  molasses  than  he  expected  to :  but,  when  he  got 
back  to  the  poor-house,  he  told  Mrs.  Wells  that  molasses 
had  riz,  and  yarn  hadn't ;  Samwell  Paine  told  him  so. 

A  village  store  —  the  store  —  is  not  a  matter  of 
hazard,  but  a  vital  necessity.  There  is  no  competition 
to  be  dreaded  in  a  place  like  Bassett.  Nobody  else 
had  capital  or  experience  to  set  up  an  opposition  shop : 
there  was  no  better  place  to  trade  within  twenty  miles, 
and  it  was  by  the  very  doors  of  Bassett  people.  If  they 
did  not  quite  like  the  way  things  were  conducted,  they 
must  still  abide  by  it,  for  there  was  no  help.  And  in 
many  things  the  business  was  mightily  improved  since 
Si  Jones's  time.  The  shop  itself  was  clean  and  orderly. 
Cod-fish  did  not  lurk  in  a  dusty  corner  behind  patent 
ploughs,  and  tea-leaves  did  not  fall  into  the  open  flour- 
barrel.  If  sand  was  suspected  in  the  sugar,  there  were 
certainly  no  chips  of  tobacco  in  its  grainy  mass  ;  and 
calico  and  candy  did  not  live  on  the  same  shelf ;  or 
raisins,  bar  soap,  and  blacking  occupy  a  drawer  together. 
The  floor  was  swept,  washed,  and  sanded,  the  counters 
scoured  off,  the  cobwebs  banished,  the  steps  repaired, 
the  windows  kept  bright  and  clear,  the  scales  shining. 
If  S.  Paine' s  clerk  had  hard  work  for  a  lad  of  eighteen, 
his  employer  could  quote  Scripture  with  tremendous 
fluency  and  fitness  when  the  boy's  old  mother  remon 
strated. 

"  Well,  Miss  Bliss,  I  don't  deny  John  has  to  work. 
So  do  I ;  so  do  I.  It  is  good  for  a  man  to  bear  the 
yoke  in  his  youth,  Scripter  says.  There  ain't  nothin' 
better  for  no  man  than  work.  '  By  the  sweat  o'  thy 
brow,'  ye  know.  The  sperrit  an'  principle  of  the 


SQUIRE   P^INE'S   CON  VERSION.  99 

Golden  Rewl  is  my  sperrit  an'  principle  :  do's  you'd  be 
done  by.  Yes,  yes,  ef  I  was  a  boy  agin,  I'd  want  ter 
be  fetched  up  jest  as  I  was  fetched  up,  —  on  hard  work 
an'  poor  livin'.  That  rouses  the  grit,  I  tell  ye.  I'm 
a-doin'  by  John  jest  as  I  was  done  by  ;  so  don't  ye  re 
sent  it.  It's  fur  his  best  int'rest,  soul  an'  body." 
With  which  chopped  straw  poor  Mrs.  Bliss's  motherly 
heart  was  forced  to  content  itself,  for  there  was  no 
other  refreshment. 

Perhaps,  in  this  application  of  the  "Golden  Rewl," 
Samuel  Paine  forgot  how  his  childish  flesh  had  wept 
and  cringed  under  the  hardships  of  his  early  life,  how 
his  childish  soul  had  flamed  with  rage  under  the  torture 
and  insult  of  the  unjustly  applied  shingle,  and  the  con 
stant  watching  of  stern  and  pitiless  eyes.  He  may  not 
have  remembered  how  his  growing  bones  ached  under 
heavy  burdens,  and  his  spare  flesh  craved  enough  even 
of  such  diet  as  pork,  cabbage,  and  rye-bread  to  allay 
the  pangs  of  childish  hunger  and  the  demands  of  daily 
growth.  But,  if  he  did  not,  is  that  excuse  ?  Is  not  the 
command  explicit  to  "remember  all  the  way  the  Lord 
thy  God  led  thee  ' '  ?  and  is  f orgetf  ulness  without  sin  ? 

But  the  man  kept  on  in  his  respectable  career,  buy 
ing  and  selling,  —  buying  at  the  lowest  rates,  and  selling 
at  the  highest ;  faithful  externally  to  all  his  duties  ; 
ever  present  in  church  ;  never  late  at  his  Sunday-school 
class  ;  never  missing  a  prayer-meeting ;  a  zealous  ex- 
horter ;  "a  master-hand  at  prayin',"  as  Widow  Bliss 
allowed ;  deeply  interested  in  the  work  of  missions  ; 
and  a  stated  contributor  to  the  Bible  Society :  but  at 
home,  —  no,  it  was  no  home, — at  his  store,  strict  in 
every  matter  of  business,  merciless  to  his  debtors,  close 
and  niggardly  even  to  his  best  customers,  harsh  to  his 


100  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

clerk,  and  greedy  of  every  smallest  profit.  Nobody 
ever  went  to  him  for  friendly  offices.  Nobody  asked 
him  to  be  neighborly ;  no  subscription-list  for  a  poor 
man  with  a  broken  leg  or  a  burned-down  barn  ever 
crossed  the  door-sill  of  the  store.  When  all  other 
young  men  went  to  quiltings  and  sociables,  he  staid  at 
the  desk,  amusing  himself  with  his  ledger  or  a  ponder 
ous  law-book  borrowed  from  Squire  Larkin.  So  he 
lived,  or  existed,  till  he  was  thirty  years  old ;  and  one 
fine  day  Squire  Larkin  died,  and  left  behind  him  an 
only  daughter,  a  goodly  sum  of  money,  and  a  vacant 
office  of  postmaster.  Now  was  Samuel's  time  again. 
He  attended  the  funeral,  and  appeared  to  be  deeply 
affected  by  the  loss  of  an  old  acquaintance.  He  called 
on  Miss  Lucy  as  early  as  was  proper,  and  made  an 
offer  for  the  squire's  law-books.  They  were  useless  to 
Lucy  now,  and  she  had  not  thought  of  selling  them. 
The  nearest  city  was  full  thirty  miles  away,  and  she  had 
not  even  a  friend  in  its  bus}7  sphere  ;  nobody  in  Bassett 
wanted  law-books  :  so  Samuel  Paine  bought  them  for  a 
quarter  of  their  value,  and  Lucy  never  found  it  out. 
His  next  step  was  to  petition  for  the  post-office  :  here, 
again,  nobody  interfered.  It  would  be  very  convenient 
to  all  concerned  that  the  post-office  should  be  in  the 
store :  that  was  its  natural  and  fit  situation.  When 
Squire  Larkin  took  it  into  his  hands,  his  old  law-office 
stood  close  by  Si  Jones's  place  of  business  ;  but  that 
tiny  tenement  had  been  burned  this  long  time,  and  the 
mails  carried  to  Mr.  Larkin 's  house,  and  distributed  in 
the  south  parlor,  where,  also,  his  books  and  his  few 
clients  found  a  place.  Now,  if  S.  Paine  got  the  office, 
it  would  be  "  everlastin'  handy,"  everybody  said :  so 
everybody  signed  the  petition,  and  postmaster  Paine 
was  sworn  in. 


SQUIRE   P AINE'S   CONVERSION.  101 

Lucy  Larkin  was  no  longer  young :  she  was  twenty- 
eight  at  least,  —  a  gentle,  faded,  pretty  woman,  with 
mild  blue  eyes,  and  thin  soft  hair  of  dull  brown,  and 
soft  trembling  lips.  She  was  not  forcible  or  energetic  ; 
she  pottered  about  the  house  a  good  deal,  and  had 
headaches,  and  went  punctually  to  sewing- circles.  Her 
literary  tastes  were  not  violent.  She  was  fond  of 
Tapper  and  the  "Lady's  Book;"  and  every  day  she 
read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  tried  with  all  her  simple 
heart  to  be  good.  But  she  had  not  much  vitality  in 
body  or  soul ;  and  after  her  father,  who  had  always 
been  her  tender  companion  and  guide,  left  her  to  her 
self,  Lucy  was  dreadfully  lonely.  The  squire  left  her 
money  well  tied  up  ;  but  she  had  all  the  income,  and 
the  principal  was  also  well  invested.  Here  was  another 
opening  for  S.  Paine. 

"It  really  seems  providential,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  carefully  sanded  the  last  barrel  of  sugar,  having 
first  filled  his  own  jar.  For,  since  he  had  taken  the 
store,  he  had  lived  in  the  two  rooms  above  it,  taken 
care  of  his  own  wants  himself,  and  hired  Widow  Bliss 
one  day  in  the  week  to  do  his  washing,  ironing,  and 
mending,  all  of  which  must  be  achieved  within  those 
twelve  hours,  or  her  dollar  (according  to  agreement) 
was  forfeited.  "Yes,  it  does  seem  to  be  a  leadin'. 
She  can't  sell  that  house,  — there  ain't  nobody  ni  Bas- 
sett  wants  to  buy  a  house,  —  an'  it's  real  handy  to  the 
store.  I  can  put  Widder  Bliss  up  stairs,  an'  then  John 
won't  lose  no  time  a-comin'  an'  a-goin'  to  his  meals  : 
he'll  be  real  handy  to  his  work,  an'  I  can  stop  the  rent 
out  o'  his  wages,  so's  to  be  sure  on't.  Guess  I  won't 
move  them  law-books  yit.  Things  seems  to  be  gittin' 
inter  shape  somehow.  I'll  fetch  round  there  to-morrow 


102  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

night,  if  I'm  spared,  an'  visit  with  her  a  little."  And, 
covering  up  the  sugar  carefully,  Samuel  Paine  took 
himself  off  to  bed. 

Poor  Lucy  was  lonely,  and  Mr.  Paine  made  himself 
agreeable.  He  condoled  with  her  in  good  set  terms, 
quoted  Scripture,  and  threw  in  verses  of  Dr.  Watts  in 
an  appropriate  manner ;  blew  his  nose  sonorously  when 
Lucy  cried  a  little,  and  thereby  produced  in  her  inno 
cent  mind  the  impression  that  he  was  crying  too.  And 
after  he  had  cheered  her  up  a  little  with  tender  exhor 
tations  not  to  give  way  too  much  to  her  feelings,  to 
remember  that  man  was  made  to  mourn,  that  every 
body  must  die  some  time  or  other,  and  that  no  doubt 
Squire  Larkin,  or  rather  "our  dear  departed  friend." 
enjoyed  the  "  hallelooyers "  of  heaven  much  better 
than  his  daughter's  society  and  keeping  post-office, 
with  other  appropriate  remarks  of  the  same  kind,  he 
bade  her  good-night,  tenderly  squeezing  her  hand  as  he 
left,  and  causing  the  poor  little  woman  to  feel  doubly 
lonely,  and  to  wish  he  would  come  back. 

Ah !  why  do  we  try  to  comfort  those  whom  death 
has  bereft?  Why  do  we  go  over  these  vain  conven 
tionalisms  which  we  know  are  futile  ?  Can  words  like 
these  bring  back  the  smile,  the  voice,  the  touch,  for 
which  we  hunger  with  maddening  eagerness  ?  Can  it 
help  us,  in  our  hopeless  longing,  to  know  that  others 
suffer  the  same  vital  anguish?  that  to  die  is  the  sure 
fate  of  all  we  love,  sooner  or  later?  or  that  we  must 
submit  to  these  solitudes  and  cryings,  and  strong  tears, 
because  we  cannot  help  ourselves  ?  No,  ten  thousand 
times  no  !  There  is  but  one  consolation  of  real  virtue, 
and  that  is  the  closer  clinging  of  the  soul  to  Him  who 
cannot  die.  The  rings  that  clasped  these  broken  sup- 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  103 

ports  must  close  on  higher  branches,  even  on  the  Tree 
of  Life ;  and  if  human  love  takes  us  in  its  tender  arms, 
and  silently  kisses  away  our  tears,  it  may  bring  us  still 
nearer  to  the  divine  ;  for,  if  we  so  love  one  another, 
shall  not  God  who  made  us  love  us  eternally  and 
infinitely?  But  Lucy  Larkin  was  one  of  the  bending 
sort  of  women,  who  never  break  under  any  blow.  She 
went  her  placid  way  about  the  world  she  knew,  did  all 
her  tranquil  duties,  and  prayed  hard  to  be  resigned. 
It  made  resignation  easier  to  have  Mr.  Paine  come  in 
once  or  twice  a  week  ;  and  when,  after  a  decent  inter 
val,  he  proposed  to  fill  the  vacant  place  in  her  heart, 
the  little  smitten  plant  rose  up  meekly,  and  accepted 
the  pallid  sunshine  with  gentle  surprise  and  content. 
She  was  so  glad  not  to  be  lonely  any  more,  and  so 
astonished  that  such  a  smart,  pious  man  as  Samuel 
Paine  should  have  thought  to  make  her  an  offer,  — ' '  she 
that  wasn't  talented,  nor  good-lookin',  nor  real  young." 
Unworldly  little  soul !  Her  twenty  thousand  dollars 
were  more  to  this  ' '  smart ' '  man  than  the  beauty  of 
Helen,  the  gifts  of  Sappho,  or  the  divine  sparkle  and 
freshness  of  ideal  girlhood ;  but  she  never  guessed  it. 
So  they  were  married  just  a  year  after  her  father's 
death.  Mrs.  Bliss  was  installed  into  the  tenement  over 
the  store ;  and  Squire  Larkin 's  handsome  old  house, 
being  freshened  up  with  paint,  and  set  in  thorough 
order,  though  without  any  expense  of  new  furnishings, 
seemed  to  renew  its  youth.  Perhaps,  when  Mrs.  Paine 
learned  to  know  her  husband  better,  she  did  not  expe 
rience  all  that  superhuman  bliss  which  poets  and  ro 
mancers  depict  as  the  result  of  matrimony  —  but  then 
who  does  ?  Most  of  us  learn  to  be  content  if  we  can 
rub  along  easily  with  our  life-partners,  and  cultivate  a 


104  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

judicious  blindness  and  deafness,  in  the  wise  spirit  of 
good  old  Quaker  Ell  wood's  well-known  hymn  :  — 

"Oh  that  mine  eyes  might  closed  be 
To  what  becomes  me  not  to  see; 
That  deafness  might  possess  mine  ear 
To  what  becomes  me  not  to  hear!" 

Lucy  was  not  consciously  so  wise  as  this  ;  but  she  had 
the  greatest  respect  for  her  husband's  piety  and  smart 
ness  ;  and,  if  she  could  not  understand  certain  of  his 
manners  and  customs,  she  still  thought  a  man  could 
not  err  who  made  such  long  and  fervent  prayers  at 
family  devotions,  and  who  always  had  the  Golden  Rule 
on  his  lips  as  a  professed  rule  of  life.  She  was  not 
naturally  demonstrative :  few  New-England  women 
are.  If  they  were  as  afraid  of  being  angry,  or  cross, 
or  peevish  before  people,  as  they  are  of  being  affection 
ate  and  tender,  life  would  be  mightily  sweetened  to 
many  of  us.  But  when  our  sour  but  sublime  old  Puri 
tan  fathers  made  it  a  legal  offence  for  a  man  to  kiss 
his  wife  on  Sunday,  what  wonder  that  their  descend 
ants'  teeth  should  be  set  on  edge? 

But,  if  Mrs.  Paine  was  not  caressing  and  affectionate 
in  manner,  Mr.  Paine  was  still  less  so.  If  he  had  any 
heart  beside  the  muscular  organ  of  that  name,  he  had 
it  yet  to  discover :  certainly  Lucy  had  not  awakened 
it  any  more  than  his  last  investment  in  groceries. 
Things  went  on  very  calmly  with  the  pair  for  a  year 
or  two ;  the  only  disturbance  being  a  sudden  and  un 
reasonable  crying-fit  of  Lucy's,  in  which  Mr.  Paine 
detected  her,  coming  home  on  an  errand  quite  unex 
pectedly. 

"I  ca-ca-can't  help  it!"  she  sobbed  hysterically, 
when  he  sternly  demanded,  — 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  105 

"  What  on  airth's  the  matter  with  ye,  Looey  ?  Stop, 
now,  right  off.  Stop,  I  tell  ye,  an'  speak  up." 

"Oh,  o-h,  o-h,  husband!  Miss  Nancy  Tuttle's  ben 
here  :  she's  ben  a-talkin'  awful.  She  said  she  consid 
ered  'twas  her  dooty  to  come  an'  deal  with  me,  becoz 
—  becoz  —  oh,  o-h,  o-h  !  " 

"  Stop  it,  now,  thunderin'  quick,  Looey!  I  can't 
stan'  here  all  da}7." 

"  O-h  !  she  said  she  heerd  a  lot  of  talk  against  you, 
husband ;  an'  she  thought  I'd  ought  to  know  it,  so's't 
I  could  use  my  influence  with  you,  an'  kinder  persuade 
you  to  do  different. ' ' 

A  grim  smile  twisted  S.  Paine's  stiff  lips.  Lucy's 
influence  with  him,  indeed  ! 

4  "Well,  well,"  said  he,  "go  ahead:  let's  hear  what 
I've  ben  a-doin'." 

"O-h!  oh,  dear!  She  said  you  sanded  the  sugar 
down  to  the  store,  an'  put  water  into  the  sperrits,  an' 
asked  folks  two  prices  for  butter.  Oh,  dear  !  I  never 
was  so  beat  in  all  my  days." 

"H-m,"  growled  Mr.  Paine.  "I'll  settle  with  her 
myself,  Looey." 

"  Oh,  you  can't !  you  can't  noways.  She's  gone  off 
in  the  stage  to  York  State  to  live.  She  said  she  felt 
as  though  she  must  free  her  mind  before  she  went,  so 
she  jest  stepped  in." 

"Darn  her!" 

Luckily  for  Lucy  she  was  sobbing  so  hard  she  did 
not  hear  this  expletive,  which  had  all  the  force  of  a 
stronger  oath,  coming^  from  those  decorous  lips,  yet 
was  not  quite  open  profanity. 

"Look  a-here,  Looey,"  Mr.  Paine  began:  "jest 
you  shut  your  head  about  that  scandalous  old  maid's 


106  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

talk.  Hain't  I  told  ye  time  an'  agin 'that  the  sperrit 
an'  principle  o'  the  Golden  Rewl  was  my  sperrit  an' 
principle?  What's  the  harm  ef  I  sell  poor  folks  butter 
a  leetle  mite  cheeper'n  I  sell  it  to  folks  with  means? 
An',  ef  I  put  a  pint  o'  water  inter  Bije  Jones's  rum- 
jug,  I  do't  out  o'  consideration  for  his  fam'ly :  he 
can't  afford  to  buy  clear  sperrit.  As  for  shoogar,  it's 
sanded  afore  it  comes  to  me,  you  better  believe  !  Now 
don't  ye  go  a-tellin'  everybody  all  these  lies :  they 
grow  every  time  they're  sot  out  in  fresh  ground. 
There  ain't  nothin'  so  good  for  a  fool's  talk  nor  a  liar's 
as  a  hullsome  lettin'  alone."  With  which  piece  of 
verbal  wisdom  Samuel  Paine  went  his  way,  and  Lucy 
subsided  to  her  customary  and  domestic  meekness. 

But  the  current  of  their  lives  was  mightily  disturbed, 
some  months  after  this  conversation,  by  the  advent  into 
the  quiet  household  of  a  big  obstreperous  baby.  Lucy 
was  blessed  for  once  in  her  life  to  the  very  overflowing 
of  her  torpid  heart.  Mr.  Paine  would  have  been  better 
pleased  with  a  boy,  to  take  the  store  and  the  post-office 
after  him ;  but  still  he  was  pleased.  An  odd  stir  of 
feeling  astonished  him  when  he  saw  the  helpless  little 
creature ;  and  with  natural  forecast  he  reflected  that 
there  might  be  a  boy  }?et,  and  so  forgave  her  for  being 
only  a  girl.  However,  when  years  slipped  by,  and  no 
boy  came,  the  sturdy,  bright,  merry  little  girl  made  her 
way  boldly  into  her  father's  good  graces,  and  almost 
reconciled  him  to  her  sex.  Miss  Louise  ruled  her 
mother,  of  course ;  that  was  in  the  nature  of  things  : 
but  all  the  village  looked  on  in  wonder  to  see  the  mas 
tery  she  achieved  over  Samuel  Paine,  or  as  he  was 
now  called,  —  partly  because  of  the  legal  information 
he  had  acquired,  and  on  a  pinch  dispensed,  from  his 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  107 

father- in-law's  library,  and  partly  because  he  had  well 
stepped  into  that  gentleman's  shoes  otherwise,  —  Squire 
Paine. 

Louise  was  an  unaccountable  offshoot  from  the  pa 
rental  tree  certainly.  Her  vivid  complexion,  waving 
dark  hair,  brilliant  brown  eyes,  and  well-made  figure, 
were  not  more  at  variance  with  the  aspects  of  her 
father  and  mother  than  her  merry,  honest,  and  fearless 
nature  was  with  their  dispositions.  Neither  of  them 
tried  to  govern  her,  after  a  few  futile  attempts.  Her 
mother  did  not  see  any  need  of  it.  To  her  the  child 
was  perfect,  a  gift  of  God,  held  in  fear  and  trembling, 
lest  he  should  recall  it  from  mortal  idolatry,  but,  being 
%such  a  gift,  to  be  entertained  as  an  angel.  Squire 
Paine  never  held  any  such  nonsensical  idea  as  this. 
But,  if  he  undertook  to  scold  or  reprove  mademoiselle, 
she  instantly  sprang  into  his  arms,  wound  her  fat  hands 
in  his  coat-collar,  and  snuggled  her  curly  head  against 
his  lips  with  a  laugh  like  a  bobolink's  ;  and,  utterly 
routed,  the  squire  would  lift  her  to  his  shoulder,  and 
march  her  off  to  the  store,  to  range  among  raisin-boxes, 
sugar-barrels,  and  candy-jars  to  her  heart's  content, 
feeling  all  the  while  half  ashamed  of  the  unwonted 
warmth  in  his  breast,  the  difficulty  of  speech,  the  soft 
cowardice  that  carried  him  away  captive,  bound  to  the 
chariot  of  this  small  conqueror,  who  was  gracious 
enough  not  to  triumph,  only  because  she  conquered  un 
consciously. 

.  So  matters  went  on  year  after  year.  In  spite  of 
sweets  and  spoiling,  Louise  grew  up  strong  and  healthy, 
thanks  to  the  open  air  in  which  it  was  her  royal  pleas 
ure  to  live  and  move,  and  have  her  being.  A  city 
mother  would  have  wept  over  the  brown  complexion, 


108  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

in  which  living  crimson  burned  with  a  warm  splendor 
unknown  to  milk  and  roses  ;  and  any  boarding-school 
phalanx  would  have  shuddered  at  the  well-tanned,  slen 
der  hands  that  were  so  deft  at  nutting,  fishing,  picking 
berries,  and  digging  roots.  But  Bassett  people  were 
not  fine.  They  only  laughed  and  nodded  as  Louise 
tore  down  the  Yv'ide  street  on  the  squire's  ancient  horse, 
lashed  to  a  horrid  gallop  by  an  old  trunk- strap  whanged 
about  his  sides,  and  the  thumps  of  stout  country  boots, 
when  he  dared  relax  this  spirited  pace. 

By  and  by  Lucy,  quite  ashamed  of  herself,  in  all 
these  years  of  mild  motherly  bliss,  to  think  she  had 
never  given  her  husband  a  son,  began  to  fade  and  fail 
a  little,  and  at  last  declined  into  her  grave  as  gently  as 
a  late  spring  snow-drift  melts  into  the  brown  grasses. 
Louise  was  fifteen  now,  and  knew  no  more  about  house 
keeping  than  a  deer  in  the  forest,  though  successive 
seasons  at  the  academy  had  given  her  a  fair  education 
for  a  country  girl  who  did  not  need  or  intend  to  teach 
for  her  living.  She  mourned  for  her  dear,  patient  little 
mother  far  more  than  she  missed  her  ;  for  Lucy  was  too 
inert,  too  characterless,  to  leave  a  wide  vacancy  in  her 
home.  There  are  some  people  whose  departure  takes 
the  sunshine  of  our  days,  the  salt  of  our  food,  the 
flavor  of  our  pleasures,  yea,  the  breath  of  our  lives, 
away  with  them,  whose  loss  is  a  wound  never  to  be 
healed,  always  bleeding,  smarting,  burning  into  our 
very  souls,  till  time  shall  be  no  more ;  and  there  are 
others,  whose  death,  after  the  first  natural  burst  of  feel 
ing,  fails  to  impress  itself  deeply,  even  on  their  nearest 
and  dearest.  The  selfish,  the  exacting,  the  tasteless, 
timid  natures,  that  were  scarce  more  than  vegetable  in 
their  humanity,  —  these  are  lightly  mourned  ;  and  of 
these  last  was  Lucy  Paine. 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  109 

It  became  necessary,  it  is  true,  to  put  a  housekeeper 
in  her  place  ;  for  the  ' c  hired  girl ' '  whom  Squire  Paine 
had  unwillingly  consented  to  install  in  the  kitchen 
when  his  wife's  strength  began  to  fail,  could  not  be 
trusted  to  manage  the  household  :  so  Mr.  Paine  be 
thought  himself  of  a  second-cousin  living  in  a  small 
village  up  the  country,  of  whom  he  had  now  and  then 
heard  incidentally,  and  happened  to  know  was  still 
unmarried,  and  pursuing  her  trade  of  tailoress  about 
Hermon  and  the  vicinity.  So  he  wrote  to  Miss  Roxy 
Keep  to  come  down  at  once  to  Bassett  and  see  him,  as 
Hermon  was  too  far  for  him  to  go,  taking  time  from 
his  business  which  he  could  not  spare.  It  was  made 
very  plain  in  Squire  Paine' s  letter  that  Miss  Roxy's 
visit  was  purely  a  matter  of  business  ;  and  her  answer 
was  as  business-like  as  could  be  desired.  She  could 
not,  she  said,  afford  a  journey  to  Bassett,  unless  it 
resulted  in  some  purpose  of  good :  if  Squire  Paine 
wanted  to  see  her  enough  to  pay  her  fare  one  way,  she 
was  willing  to  "  resk  "  the  other  half.  This  curt  and 
thrifty, note  rather  pleased  the  squire  ;  for,  though  he 
did  not  want  to  risk  his  money  any  more  than  Miss 
Roxy,  still  he  thought  her  proposition  showed  her  to 
be  of  his  own  frugal  and  forehanded  sort,  and  he  at 
once  closed  with  those  terms. 

It  might  be  a  curious  matter  of  investigation  to  note 
the  influence  different  occupations  have  upon  those  who 
pursue  them.  Why  is  it  that  a  tailoress  was  always 
incisive,  practical,  full  of  resource,  acute,  fearless, 
and  even  snappy?  Did  anybody  ever  see  a  meek 
woman  useful  with  cloth  and  shears  ?  Do  the  mascu 
line  habiliments  which  she  fashions  impart  a  virile 
vigor,  and  the  implements  of  her  trade  a  man-like 


110  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

strength,  to  the  mind  which  plans  and  the  hand  which 
wields  them  ?  But  we  have  no  time  for  inductive  sci 
ence  here.  When  Squire  Paine  met  Roxy  Keep  at  the 
door,  he  was  at  once  struck  by  her  compact  aspect 
and  entire  self-possession.  Her  gown  of  dark  home 
made  gingham,  and  thick  plaid  shawl,  were  simply  the 
most  useful  garments  that  could  be.  Beauty  did  not 
excuse  their  being,  much  less  that  of  the  severe  Leg 
horn  bonnet,  without  flower  or  feather,  tied  clown  under 
her  chin  with  a  sturdy  greenish  ribbon  that  must  have 
been  her  grandmother's.  But  over  all  these  the  sensi 
ble  face,  the  keen,  dark  eyes,  firm  mouth,  and  dominant 
nose,  forbade  any  idea  of  ridicule  or  contempt  to  be 
associated  with  Miss  Roxy,  whatever  she  chose  to 
wear.  The  squire  was  as  urbane  as  he  knew  how 
to  be. 

"Set  down,  cousin  Roxy,  set  down.  I'll  take  ye 
over  to  the  house  in  a  minnit.  I've  bed  to  put  in  a 
new  clerk,  ye  see.  John  Bliss  he  tho't  he  could  do 
better  in  the  city  :  so  he  up  an'  left  me  sudden,  —  too 
sudden  re'lly,  considerin'  him  an'  me  hed  ben  together 
so  long.  An'  now  'Lisha  Squires  has  took  his  place. 
'Lisha's  a  likely  young  man,  for  what  I  know  —  well 
eddicated  ;  father's  a  minister  o'  the  gospel ;  got  run 
down  a-preachin'.  His  wife  had  means  —  not  much, 
not  much,  but  'nough  to  buy  a  farm  :  so  they  traded 
with  me  for  th'  old  humstead,  an'  he's  a-farmin'  oii't, 
an'  'Lisha  he's  gi'n  up  goin'  to  college,  an'  took  John 
Bliss's  place  here.  He's  ruther  high-strung,  to  be 
sure ;  but  he's  smart,  real  smart,  an'  I  don't  know  as 
I  could  ha'  did  better.  He's  a-onheadin'  some  barr'ls 
now.  A-h  !  there  he  is." 

And  a  handsome  young  fellow,  grave  and  sad  be- 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  Ill 

yond  his  years,  came  up  from  the  cellar  with  a  hatchet 
in  his  hand.  Miss  Roxy's  keen  eyes  read  that  open 
face  at  once.  She  felt  the  purest  pity  for  the  mis 
placed  boy,  whose  education  was  wasted,  and  his  na 
ture  disgusted,  by  the  repellent  character  of  his  duties 
as  well  as  his  employer.  Elisha  was  indeed  misplaced  ; 
but  he  was  in  his  daily  way  a  hero,  and  to  be  heroic 
in  the  petty  drudgery  of  a  distasteful  life  is  a  thousand 
times  harder  than  to  win  splendid  battles.  He  had 
given  up  every  thing  to  help  his  feeble  father  and  his 
six  sisters  ;  so  had  his  mother :  and  neither  of  them 
looked  upon  their  sacrifices  as  more  than  a  matter  of 
course,  which,  perhaps,  was  the  one  touch  superior 
even  to  heroism. 

But  Miss  Roxy,  used  to  that  sort  of  intercourse  with 
man}T,  perhaps  most,  of  the  families  in  her  neighbor 
hood,  which  is  attributed  to  the  proverbial  valet  de 
chambre,  was  yet  so  much  more  perceptive  than  that 
stupid  French  man-servant,  that  she  knew  a  hero  even 
in  a  country  store ;  and  she  turned  away  with  the 
squire,  carrying  in  her  heart  a  fund  of  admiration  and 
good  will  that  was  to  stand  Elisha  in  stead  at  a  future 
time  of  need. 

In  the  library  of  Squire  Larkin's  time  the  next  hour 
was  spent  by  Samuel  Paine  and  Roxy  Keep  in  a  pas 
sage  of  arms.  He  was  determined  to  secure-  Roxy  to 
manage  his  establishment  on  his  own  terms  :  and  she 
was  willing  to  be  secured,  but  it  must  be  on  her  terms  ; 
and,  being  a  tailoress,  she  carried  the  day.  In  con 
sideration  of  the  little  home  she  left  in  Hermon,  and 
the  lucrative  trade  she  left,  she  required  of  the  squire 
a  written  guaranty  that  her  services  should  continue 
for  two  years  in  any  case,  subject  only  to  her  own 


112  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

change  of  mind  ;  that  her  salary  should  be  paid  quar 
terly,  under  pain  of  her  immediate  departure  if  it  failed 
to  come  to  hand  ;  and  that  the  aforesaid  salary  should 
be  a  sufficient  equivalent  for  the  trade  she  gave  up. 
After  much  conversation,  the  squire  yielded  all  these 
points,  though  with  no  good  grace. 

"  Well,  now  I've  gi'n  up  to  ye,"  said  he,  "  I'd  like 
to  know  how  soon  ye  can  come,  Roxy.  Things  is 
a-goin'  every  which  way  here.  Lowisy's  a  good  girl, 
—  she's  a  good  enough  girl ;  but  she  ain't  nothin'  but  a 
girl,  an'  she  ain't  no  more  fit  to  run  a  house'n  she  is 
to  preach  a  sermon :  so  I'd  like  ye  to  come  back's 
quick  as  ye  can." 

"I  dono's  I  need  to  go,"  curtly  and  promptly  an 
swered  Miss  Roxy.  ' '  I  reckoned  I  should  stay  when 
I  come  :  so  I  sold  out  my  house  to  deacon  TreadwelPs 
widder,  an'  I  fetched  my  trunks  along.  They're'  over 
to  Reading  depot ;  and  the  stage-driver  he'll  take  the 
checks  to-morrer,  and  fetch  'em  back.  I  don't  never 
let  no  grass  grow  under  my  feet,  Squire  Paine." 

"  Land  alive  !  I  should  think  not !  "  ejaculated  the 
astonished  squire.  So  Miss  Roxy  staid,  and  the  house 
was  stirred  up  from  beneath  to  meet  her.  Bridget 
gave  notice  just  in  time  not  to  have  it  given  to  her ; 
and  brush  in  hand,  the  fiercest  of  bandanna  handker 
chiefs  tied  over  her  crisp  black  hair,  Miss  Roxy  began 
that  awful  ' '  setting  to  rights  ' '  which  is  at  once  the 
privilege  and  the  necessity  of  strenuous  souls  like  hers. 
At  first  Louise  was  half  inclined  to  rebel :  the  slipshod 
family  rule,  or  misrule,  had  just  suited  her  youthful 
carelessness.  But  Miss  Roxy's  keen  humor,  pleasant 
common  sense,  and  comfortable  efficiency,  soon  en 
listed  Louise  on  her  side  ;  arid  the  girl  could  not  help 


SQUTRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  11  a 

enjoying  the  bright  order,  the  speckless  comfort,  the 
savory  meals,  the  thrift  that  was  not  meanness,  and 
the  frugality  that  could  be  discreetly  generous,  which 
followed  Miss  Roxy's  reign :  and  at  the  end  of  two 
years  the  squire  was  glad  enough  to  renew  the  guar 
anty  which  this  foreseeing  woman  still  demanded  of 
him.  Well  for  her,  well  for  all  of  them,  was  it  that 
he  did  so  sign. 

In  the  mean  time  Squire  Paine  had  gone  his  way, 
buying  and  selling,  and  talking  much  about  the  "Golden 
Rewl,"  and  many  small  tiffs  had  ensued  between  him 
and  Miss  Roxy  on  points  of  domestic  economy.  But 
the  squire  knew,  if  he  had  never  read,  that  discretion 
is  the  better  part  of  valor,  and  considering  just  in  time 
that  housekeeping  was  not  his  forte,  and  was  Miss 
Roxy's,  he  always  beat  a  retreat  after  these  battles, 
and  not  always  with  flying  colors.  But  now,  toward 
the  beginning  of  this  third  year,  there  began  to  be 
trouble  in  the  camp.  Elisha  Squires,  in  common  with 
various  other  youths  of  Bassett,  had  found  out  that 
Louise  Paine  was  charming  above  all  other  girls  of  the 
vicinity ;  and  the  squire's  house  became  a  sort  of  be 
sieged  castle,  greatly  to  his  disgust  and  indignation. 

"  I  won't  hev  it !  1  won't  hev  it !  "  stormed  he  one 
line  night,  when  the  last  of  seven  callers  had  gone  from 
the  front-door,  and  Louise  judiciously  slipped  off  to 
bed. 

"  Won't  hev  what?  "  calmly  inquired  Roxy,  who  sat 
by  the  "  keeping-room  "  table,  toeing  off  a  stocking. 

"Why,  I  won't  hev  so  many  fellers  a-comin'  here 
the  hull  etarnal  time.  There  ain't  no  use  on't,  an'  I 
tell  ye  I  won't  hev  it.  I  won't,  as  sure's  ye  live." 

"What  be  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?  "  was  .Roxy's 
cool  rejoinder. 


114  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"I'll  lock  the  doors." 

"Then  they'll  come  into  the  back- winder, "  smiled 
the  exasperating  spinster.  "  Look  here,  Squire  Paine," 
and  she  laid  down  her  knitting,  and  confronted  him  as 
one  who 

"  Drinks  delight  of  battle  with  his  peers," 

"  you're  a  master-hand  to  talk  about  the  Golden  Rewl : 
how'd  you  ha'  liked  it  ef  Squire  Larkin  had  locked  the 
door  to  this  house  on  you  ?  ' ' 

"  He  hadn't  no  call  to  :  he  was  tlead." 

"  Now  don't  jump  no  fences  that  way.  'Spose  he'd 
ben  alive  ?  ' ' 

"  I  dono's  I'm  called  to  tell  ye.  I'm  a  professor  in 
good  an'  reg'lar  standin',  an'  the  Golden  Rewl  hes  allers 
ben  my  standard  o'  livin'  ;  an'  the  sperrit  and  princi 
ple  o'  the  Golden  Rewl  is  to  do  to  others  as  you'd  wish 
to  be  done  by ;  an'  ef  I  was  a  gal  I  should  be  glad  to 
hev  the  doors  locked  on  a  passel  o'  fellers  that  come 
foolin'  around  nights." 

"You're  life-everlastin'  sure  o'  that,  be  ye?"  was 
the  dry  rejoinder. 

"  Well,  ef  she  ain't,  she'd  orter  be  ;  an'  I'm  free  to 
conclude  that  Lowisy  doos  what  she'd  orter,  bein'  my 
child  —  and  her  ma's." 

"  I  don't  believe  no  great  in  hinderin'  young  folks's 
ways,  Squire  Paine.  It's  three  wheels  to  a  wagon  to  be 
young,  an'  hinderin'  don't  overset  nothin'  :  it's  more 
apt  to  set  it,  a  long  sight.  Don't  you  never  expect 
Lowisy  to  git  married  ? ' ' 

"I  dono's  I  do,  an'  I  dono  as  I  do.  Married  life 
is  an  onsartin  state.  Mebbe  Lowisy 'd  be  better  off  to 
stay  to  hum  with  me.  Anyway,  there  ain't  no  sech 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  115 

hurry :  'tain't  the  best  goods  go  off  the  fust.  An' 
I  tell  ye  what,  Roxy,  I  do  expect  she'll  hark  to  me 
about  who  she  marries,  and  not  go  an'  git  tied  up  to 
some  poor  Jack." 

"Then  I  tell  you  what,  Samwell  Paine,  you  expect 
nothin',  an'  you'll  sup  sorrow.  Girls  will  pick  out 
their  own  husbands  to  the  day  after  never,  for  all  you. 
I  always  hold  that  there's  two  things  a  woman  had 
oughter  pick  out  for  herself,  spite  o'  fate  ;  and  them 
two  is  her  husband  an'  her  carpets." 

;' An'  I  expect  to  pick  'em  both  out  for  Lowisy," 
answered  the  undaunted  squire,  as  he  marched  off  to 
bed,  holding  his  tallow  candle  askew,  and  dropping  hot 
tears  —  of  tallow  —  as  he  went. 

But  as  fate,  or  Louise,  would  have  it,  Squire  Paine 
was  not  to  pick  out  either  of  these  essentials  for  his 
daughter.  She  was  fast  drifting  into  that  obstinate 
blessedness  which  is  reserved  for  youth  and  love, 
which  laughs  at  parents  and  guardians,  defies  time  and 
circumstance,  and  too  often  blinds  the  brightest  eyes, 
and  brings  the  most  fastidious  hands  to 

"  Wreathe  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy," 

and  finds  out  too  late  it  is  Bottom  the  weaver. 

In  Louise's  case,  however,  there  was  no  danger  of 
such  waking  :  she  had  good  reason  for  her  preference. 
Elisha  Squires,  her  father's  clerk,  was  a  handsome, 
well-educated,  energetic  young  fellow,  —  a  gentleman 
by  nature  and  breeding  both.  Louise  had  pitied  him 
ten  thousand  times  for  his  unfit  position  in  her  father's 
employment,  before  he  perceived  that  she  was  inter 
ested  the  least  in  him  or  his  occupation  ;  and,  when  it 
dawned  on  the  busy  and  weary  soul  that  one  bright 


116  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

blossom  looked  over  the  paling  into  his  desert  life, 
what  was  the  natural  impulse  that  followed?  It  is  not 
a  young  man  who  "loves  the  wild  rose,  and  leaves  it 
on  its  stalk,"  literally  or  figuratively;  and  these  juve 
nile  idiots  fell  fathoms  deep  in  love  with  each  other, 
entirely  unconscious  of  the  melancholy  fact  that  one 
was  the  richest  girl  in  Bassett,  and  the  other  working 
for  daily  bread.  Arcadia  could  not  have  shown  more 
divine  simplicity.  But  Bassett  was  not  Arcadia  ;  and 
when  sundry  jealous  and  disappointed  swains  discov 
ered  that ' '  Lowisy  Paine  ' '  would  go  home  from  prayer- 
meetings  with  'Lisha  Squires,  had  actually  been  seen 
lingering  with  him  at  her  father's  front-gate  in  the 
starry  May  darkness,  even  after  the  nine-o'clock  bell 
had  rung,  and  was  sure  to  welcome  him  on  a  Sunday 
night,  though  she  might  snap  and  snarl  at  them,  then 
Louise's  troubles  began.  Prayer-meetings  must  be 
attended  ;  but  the  squire  went  to  and  fro  with  her  him 
self,  and  Elisha  could  not  be  spared  from  the  store  to 
attend  them  at  all.  Squire  Paine  hated  to  lose  his 
clerk,  but  he  would  not  lose  his  daughter :  so,  with  the 
obtuse  perception  of  the  heavy  father  from  time  imme 
morial,  he  rushed  into  the  melee  like  some  floundering 
elephant  into  a  flower-bed. 

"•  Lowisy,"  said  he,  one  Sunday  night,  after  the  row 
of  adorers  were  dispersed,  Elisha  Squires  among  them, 
"  hear  to  me  now  !  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  hev  you  courted 
the  hull  time  by  these  here  fellers.  You've  got  to  stop 
it.  'Specially  I  won't  have  ye  careerin'  around  with 
'Lisha :  he's  poorer'n  poverty,  an'  as  stuck  up  as 
though  he  was  mighty  Caesar.  I've  fetched  ye  up,  an' 
gi'n  ye  a  good  eddication,  an'  you  ain't  a-goin'  to 
throw  yourself  away  on  no  sech  trash." 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  117 

The  hot  color  rushed  up  to  Louise's  forehead,  her 
red  lip  curled,  and  unspeakable  disdain  expressed  it 
self,  as  she  looked  straight  into  her  father's  face  ;  but 
she  did  not  say  a  word.  She  left  the  room  with  perfect 
composure,  stopping  to  pick  a  dry  leaf  from  her  pet 
geranium,  and  walked  up  the  stairs  with  a  slow  precis 
ion  that  ought  to  have  spoken  volumes  to  her  father's 
ear,  as  it  did  to  Roxy's. 

"  Well,  you've  done  it  now,"  remarked  that  respecta 
ble  woman. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  hev,"  was  the  squire's  complacent 
answer,  quite  misapprehending  the  sense  in  which  he 
had  done  it.  "I  guess  I've  put  a  spoke  inter  that 
wheel,  an'  sideways  too." 

Roxy  gave  one  of  the  silent  chuckles  which  meant 
deep  amusement,  and  took  herself  off  to  bed.  She 
was  not  a  woman  to  interfere  with  the  course  of  true 
love  between  Louise  and  Elisha,  both  of  whom  had 
become  special  favorites  of  hers  since  their  first  ac 
quaintance  ;  but,  as  she  said  to  herself,  she  would  not 
"make  nor  meddle"  in  this  matter,  having  full  confi 
dence  in  Louise's  power  of  managing  her  own  affairs, 
and  far  too  much  reverence  and  delicacy  in  her  own 
nature  to  be  a  match-maker.  But  the  squire  went  on 
from  bad  to  worse,  and,  in  his  blind  zeal  to  have  his 
own  way,  brought  things  to  a  swift  conclusion ;  for, 
having  given  Elisha  notice  that  he  should  need  him  no 
longer,  he  was  more  than  surprised  one  fine  July  morn 
ing  to  find  that  Louise  had  left  him  too,  —  that  the  pair 
had  gone  together.  The  squire  was  black  with  rage 
when  the  fact  was  announced  to  him  by  Miss  Roxy, 
and  a  brief  and  defiant  note  from  Louise  put  into  his 
hand.  lie  raved,  raged,  even  swore,  in  his  first  wild 


118  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

fury,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  kitchen  like  a  wild 
animal. 

Miss  Roxy  eyed  him  with  a  peculiar  expression. 
She  felt  that  her  hour  had  come.  As  she  afterward 
said,  "I  should  ha'  bust  ef  I  hadn't  spoke.  I'd  ben 
a-hankeriu'  to  give  it  to  him  quite  a  spell,  but  I  held 
my  tongue  for  Lowisy's  sake.  But  thinks  sez  I, 
now's  your  time,  Roxauuy  Keep  ;  pitch  in  an'  do  your 
dooty.  An'  I  tell  ye  it  whistled  of  itself.  Seemed  as 
though  'twa'n't  me  re'lly,  but  soinethin'  makin'  a  tin 
horn  out  o'  my  lips  to  rouse  him  up  to  judgment." 
And  certainly  Miss  Roxy  was  roused  herself :  she  con 
fronted  the  squire  like  a  Yankee  lioness. 

"Look  a-here,  Samwell  Paine:  it's  time  somebody 
took  ye  to  do.  You've  ben  a-buyin'  an'  a-sellin',  an' 
a-rakin'  an'  a-scrapin',  till  your  soul  —  ef  you've  got 
any  —  is  nigh  about  petered  out.  You  call  yourself  a 
Christian  an'  a  professor,  an'  a  follerer  of  the  Golden 
Rewl,  do  ye?  An'  here  you  be,  cussin'  an'  swearin' 
like  a  Hivite  an'  a  Jeboosite,  an'  all  the  rest  on  'em, 
because  things  ain't  jest  as  you  would  have  'em  to  be. 
You  hain't  had  no  bowels  of  compassion  for  Lowisy  no 
more'n  ef  you  was  her  jailer,  instead  of  her  pa. 
What's  the  matter  with  'Lisha  Squires?  He's  a  hon 
est,  good-disposed,  reliable  feller  as  ever  wras,  good 
enough  for  anybody's  girl;  a  Christian  too,  —  not  one 
o'  the  sugar-sandin',  rum- water  in',  light-weight  kind, 
but  a  real  one.  He  don't  read  the  Golden  Rewl  t'other 
side  up,  as  you  do,  I  tell  ye.  You  make  it  dohr  to 
other  folks  just  what  you  want  to  do,  an'  lettin'  them 
go  hang.  I  tell  ye  the  hypocrite's  hope  shall  perish ; 
an'  you're  one  on  'em  as  sure  as  the  world.  'Tain't 
sayin'  Lord,  Lord,  that  makes  folks  pious  :  it's  doin' 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  119 

the  will  o'  God,  justice,  an'  mercy,  an'  lovin' -kind 
ness." 

Here  Roxy  paused  for  breath ;  and  the  astounded 
squire  ejaculated,  "  Roxanny  Keep  !  " 

"Yes,  that's  my  name:  I  ain't  afeared  to  own  it, 
nor  to  set  it  square  to  what  I've  said.  I  hain't  lived 
here  goin'  on  three  year,  an'  seen  your  ways,  for  nothin'. 
I've  had  eyes  to  behold  your  pinchin'  an'  sparin'  an' 
crawlin'  ;  grindiu'  poor  folks's  faces,  ail'  lickin'  rich 
folks's  platters  ;  actin'  as  though  your  own  daughter 
was  nothin'  but  a  bill  of  expense  to  ye,  an'  a  block  to 
show  off  your  pride  an'  vanity,  not  a  livin',  lovin'  soul 
to  show  the  way  to  heaven  to.  An'  now  she's  quit. 
She's  got  a  good,  lovin',  true-hearted  feller  to  help  her 
along  where  you  didn't  know  the  way,  and  didn't  want 
to,  neither ;  an'  you're  ravin'  mad  'cause  he  hain't  got 
no  money,  when  you've  got  more'n  enough  for  all  on 
ye.  Samwell  Paine,  you  ain't  no  Christian,  not  'cordin' 
to  gospel  truth,  ef  you  have  been  a  professor  nigh  on 
to  forty  year.  You  no  need  to  think  you  was  con 
verted,  for  you  never  was.  Folks  ain't  converted  to 
meanness  an'  greediness  an'  self-seekin' ,  an'  wrath  an' 
malice.  The  Lord  don't  turn  'em  into  the  error  of  their 
ways :  he  turns  Jem  out  on't.  Ef  you  was  a  minister 
in  the  pulpit,  or  a  deacon  handin'  the  plate,  you  ain't 
no  Christian  'thout  you  act  like  one  ;  an'  that's  the 
etarnal  fact  on't.  You've  ben  a  livin'  lie  all  these 
years  ;  an'  you've  ended  by  drivin'  your  only  daughter, 
your  own  flesh  an'  blood,  the  best  thing  the  Lord  ever 
give  ye,  out  o'  house  an'  home  'cause  you  was  mad 
after  money.  An'  it'll  happen  unto  ye  accordin'  to 
the  word  o'  the  Lord  about  sech  folks :  you'll  be 
drownded  in  destruction  an'  perdition,  an'  pierce  your- 


120  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

self  through  with  many  sorrers,  ef  you  don't  flee  for 
your  life  from  sech  things,  and  f oiler  after  righteous 
ness,  godliness,  an'  the  rest  on  'em.  You'd  oughter 
go  down  on  your  poor  old  knees,  an'  pray  to  be  con 
verted  at  the  'leventh  hour.  There,  I've  freed  my 
mind,  thank  the  Lord !  an'  there  won't  be  none  o'  your 
blood  found  on  my  skirts  ef  the  last  day  comes  in  to- 
morrer  mornin'."  With  which  the  exhausted  lecturer 
heaved  a  long  breath,  and  began  to  mop  her  heated 
face  vigorously  with  her  inseparable  bandanna  handker 
chief,  which  might  have  symbolized  to  the  audience, 
had  there  been  any,  a  homely  victorious  banner. 

The  squire  stood  amazed  and  afraid.  In  all  the  long 
course  of  his  life  nobody  had  ever  before  gainsaid  him. 
Outward  respect  and  consideration  had  been  his  por 
tion  :  now  the  ground  cracked  under  his  feet,  and  he 
found  himself  in  a  new  land.  He  did  not  go  to  the 
store  that  day :  he  stumbled  out  of  Roxy's  sight,  and 
shut  himself  up  in  the  unused  parlor,  where  alternate 
storms  of  rage,  conviction,  despair,  and  scorn,  assailed 
him  for  many  hours.  It  was,  indeed,  a  dreadful  battle 
that  he  fought  in  the  musty  silence  of  that  darkened 
room,  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  caged  tiger.  Roxy 
had  spoken  awful  words  ;  but  they  were  milk  and  honey 
compared  to  the  echo  which  his  late-awakened  con 
science  gave  them  :  still  he  fought  with  a  certain  sav 
age  courage  against  the  truths  that  were  toppling  over 
to  crush  him,  and  justified  himself  to  his  own  accusing 
soul  with  a  persistent  hardihood  that  had  better  served 
a  better  cause.  It  was  reserved  for  God's  own  stroke 
to  bring  sweet  waters  out  of  this  rock  :  Moses  and  the 
rod  had  smitten  it  in  vain.  Just  as  his  courage  seemed 
to  aid  him,  and  he  had  resolved  to  send  Roxy  back  to 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  121 

Hermon  and  her  tailoring,  and  brave  out  the  judgment 
of  his  fellow-men  and  the  desertion  of  Louisa,  nay, 
more,  to  revenge  himself  for  that  desertion  by  refusing 
her  aid  or  comfort,  or  even  recognition  of  any  kind,  — 
just  then,  as  he  had  settled  down  into  his  self-compla 
cency,  and  wilful  disregard  of  God's  own  words,  pelted 
at  him  as  they  had  been  by  Roxy,  he  heard  an  outer 
door  open,  invading  steps,  voices  of  low  tumult,  a  sort 
of  whispering  horror  and  stifled  grief  drawing  nearer 
to  his  retreat,  and  the  door  opened  very  slowly,  dis 
closing  the  stern  features  of  Parson  Peters,  the  village 
minister.  Not  altogether  stern  now  was  that  long  and 
meagre  visage  :  a  sort  of  terror  mingled  with  pity  soft 
ened  its  rigid  lines. 

"My  brother,"  he  said,  lifting  one  hand,  as  he  was 
wont  to  do  when  praying  over  a  coffin,  and  facing  the 
troubled  and  inflamed  countenance  of  Squire  Paine,  — 
4 'my  brother,  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  upon  you  this 
day.  Your  child  has  been  taken.  There  has  been  a 
terrible  accident  to  the  train  by  which  they  left  Reading 
station,  and  news  has  come  that  both  are  —  gone." 

Like  a  forest  tree  into  which  the  woodman  sets  his 
last  stroke,  the  squire  tottered,  paused  for  one  instant 
of  time,  and  fell  forward  prostrate. 

Roxy  was  behind  Parson  Peters  as  the  old  man  fell ; 
and,  pushing  that  eminent  divine  out  of  her  way  like  a 
spider,  she  was  at  once  on  her  knees  by  his  side, 
promptly  administering  the  proper  remedies.  It  was 
only  a  fainting-fit ;  but,  when  the  squire  recovered,  he 
was  weak,  humble,  and  gentle  as  a  little  child.  He  lay 
on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor  all  day.  The  unused  windows 
were  opened,  and  the  sweet  summer  air  flowed  in  and 
out  with  scents  of  late  roses  and  new  hay  on  its  deli- 


122  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOES. 

cate  wings  ;  but  Squire  Paine  did  not  notice  it.  He 
took  the  broth  Roxy  brought  him  without  a  complaint, 
and  actually  thanked  her  for  it.  She  herself  guarded 
the  outside  door  like  a  dragon,  and  even  refused  ad 
mittance  to  Parson  Peters. 

"No,"  said  she :  "it's  good  to  let  him  be  to-day. 
I  tell  ye  the  Lord's  a-dealin'  with  the  poor  old  creter, 
an'  we  hadn't  ought  to  meddle.  Human  nater  is  ever- 
lastin'  queer,  an'  there  is  some  folks  nobody  can  tune 
so  well  as  Him  that  made  'em.  He'll  take  up  his  bed 
an'  walk  as  soon  as  the  merracle  works,  an'  we  can't 
hurry  it  up  any ;  but  I've  faith  to  believe  it's 
a-workin'." 

And  it  was  according  to  Roxy's  faith.  As  soon  as 
the  sun  went  down,  the  squire  rose  up,  ate  what  was 
set  before  him,  put  his  disordered  dress  to  rights,  and 
walked  feebly  over  to  the  weekly  prayer-meeting ;  for 
these  things  happened  of  a  Thursday. 

The  lights  in  the  little  schoolhouse  were  dim  and 
few,  for  the  night's  warm  atmosphere  made  even  the 
heat  of  the  two  necessary  lamps  oppressive  ;  but  Squire 
Paine  took  no  advantage  of  this  darkness,  though  the 
room  was  unusually  full.  He  walked  to  the  very  front 
bench,  and  seated  himself  before  the  deacon  who  con 
ducted  the  meeting  ;  and,  as  soon  as  the  opening  nymn 
was  sung,  he  waved  the  good  man  who  was  about  to 
follow  with  a  prayer  aside  with  a  certain  rugged  dig 
nity,  and  rose,  facing  the  assembly,  and  beginning  with 
broken  voice  to  speak. 

"Brethring,"  he  said,  "I  come  here  to-night  to 
make  a  confession.  I've  lived  amongst  you  for  sixty 
odd  year,  man  an'  boy,  an'  the  last  forty  on  'em  I've 
ben  a  livin'  lie.  Brethring,  I  hev  ben  a  professor  in 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  123 

this  here  church  all  that  time,  an'  I  wa'n't  never  con 
verted.  I  was  a  real  stiddy-goin'  hypocrite,  an'  I 
hain't  but  jest  found  it  out.  The  marciful  Lord  has 
kinder  spared  me  for  a  day  of  repentance,  an'  it's 
come  :  I  tell  ye  it's  come  !  There  was  one  that  dealt 
with  me  mightily,  an'  shook  me  some,  —  one,  I  may 
say,  that  drilled  the  hole,  an'  put  in  the  powder  of  the 
Word,  an'  tamped  it  down  with  pretty  stiff  facts  ;  but 
it  didn't  do  no  good.  I  was  jest  like  a  rock  bored  an' 
charged,  but  pooty  rugged  an'  hard  yet.  But,  breth- 
ring,  THE  LORD  HAS  FIRED  THE  BLAST  HIMSELF,  an'  the 
natcral  man  is  broken  to  pieces.  I  give  up  right  here. 
The  Lord  is  good.  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner ! 
Brethring,  can't  you  pray?  " 

There  was  but  one  answer  to  the  pathetic  agony  of 
that  appeal.  Deacon  Adkins  rose,  and  prayed  as  if  his 
lips  had  been  touched  with  a  coal  from  the  altar,  and 
there  were  sympathetic  tears  in  the  hardest  eyes  there 
before  he  finished  ;  while  Squire  Paine's  low  sobs  were 
heard  at  intervals,  as  if  they  were  the  very  convulsions 
of  a  breaking  heart. 

' '  Let  us  sing 

"  '  Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow,'  " 

said  the  deacon,  after  his  prayer  was  over.  And,  when 
the  last  line  of  that  noble  Doxology  floated  away  into 
the  rafters,  they  all  gathered  round  to  shake  hands, 
and  express  their  deep  sympathy  with  the  repentant 
and  bereaved  father.  It  was  almost  too  much  for 
Squire  Paine.  The  breaking-up  of  the  great  deep  within 
had  worn  upon  him  exceedingly :  humbled,  sad,  yet 
wonderfully  peaceful  as  his  spirit  felt,  still  the  flesh 
trembled,  and  was  weak.  He  was  glad  when  Roxy 


124  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOKS. 

came  up,  and,  taking  hold  of  his  arm,  led  him  home 
ward. 

Was  he  glad,  or  death-smitten,  or,  as  he  thought, 
suddenly  in  the  heavenly  places,  when  his  own  door 
opened  before  his  hand  touched  the  latch,  and  Louise, 
darting  forward,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  ? 

4 '  Land  o'  liberty!"  shrieked  Roxy.  "Do  you 
want  to  kill  your  pa  outright  ?  An'  how  came  ye  here 
anyway?  We  heered  you  an'  him  was  both  stun- 
dead!" 

Roxy's  curt  and  curious  interposition  seemed  to  re 
store  the  equilibrium  suddenly.  Squire  Paine  did  not 
faint,  and  Louise  actually  laughed.  Here  was  some 
thing  natural  and  homely  to  shelter  in  after  the  dream 
like  agitation  of  the  day. 

"  No,"  said  Louise's  clear  voice  :  "  we  wa'n't  hurt, 
not  much  —  only  stunned,  and  scared  a  bit.  But  there 
was  two  in  the  next  seat  who  —  well,  they  won't  come 
home  to  their  folks,  Aunt  Roxy.  We  thought  maybe 
you  would  be  anxious  ;  and  then  somebody  said  right 
before  .us  that  we  were  both  killed,  and  they'd  sent 
the  news  over  to  Bassett :  so  we  thought  the  best 
thing  to  do  was  to  come  back  and  show  ourselves. 
Here's  'Lisha." 

Squire  Paine  must  have  been  converted  ;  for  he  shook 
his  son-in-law's  hand  with  all  good  will,  and  kissed 
his  daughter  heartily.  His  voice  was  somewhat  weak 
and  husky  ;  but  he  managed  to  say  so  as  to  be  heard, 
"An'  now  ye've  got  home  re'lly,  you've  got  to  stay 
home.  I  sha'n't  hev  no  more  sech  risks  run.  And, 
'Lisha,  we'll  open  the  store  real  early  to-morrer.  I 
dono  when  it's  ben  shut  twenty- four  hours  before." 

This  was  all  he  said ;   for  the  New-England  man, 


SQUIRE  PAINE'S  CONVERSION.  125 

saint  or  sinner,  has  few  words  when  feeling  is  strong 
est.  But  the  squire's  action  spoke  for  him.  He  never 
referred  to  the  past,  but  strove  with  his  might  to  live 
a  new  and  righteous  life.  Not  all  at  once  the  granite 
gave  place  to  gold  :  there  were  were  roots  of  bitterness, 
and  strivings  of  the  old  Adam,  many  and  often  ;  but 
none  who  had  once  known  him  doubted  that  Squire 
Paine  was  a  changed  man.  At  his  own  earnest  re 
quest  he  was  allowed  to  make  a  new  profession  of  reli 
gion  ;  and,  after  relating  his  experiences  in  due  form 
to  the  assembled  deacons,  he  wound  up  the  recital  in 
this  fashion  :  "It  was  the  Lord's  hand  done  it  fin'lly, 
brethring ;  but,  next  to  him,  I  owe  this  here  real  con 
version  to  Roxanny  Keep." 

u  Haileloojah  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Roxy,  when  Mrs. 
Deacon  Adkins  betrayed  her  good  husband's  confidence 
far  enough  to  tell  her  this.  "I  tell  ye,  Miss  Adkins, 
I  took  my  life  in  my  hand  that  mornin'  ;  but  I  felt  a 
call  to  do  it.  Ye  know  David  killed  Goliath  with  a 
pebble,  nothin'  more  ;  an'  I  allers  could  sling  straight." 


MISS   BEULAH'S   BONNET. 

"  I  DON'T  want  to  be  too  fine,  ye  know,  Mary  Jane,  — 
somethiu'  tasty  and  kind  of  suitable.  It's  an  old  bun- 
nit  ;  but  my  !  them  Leghorns '11  last  a  generation  if  you 
favor  'em.  That  was  mother's  weddin'  bunnit." 

"You  don't  say  so  !  Well,  it  has  kept  remarkable 
well ;  but  a  good  Leghorn  will  last,  that's  a  fact, 
though  they  get  real  brittle  after  a  spell :  and  you'll 
have  to  be  awful  careful  of  this,  Miss  Beulah ;  it's 
brittle  now,  I  see." 

"  Yes,  I  expect  it  is  ;  but  it'll  carry  me  through  this 
summer,  I  guess.  But  I  want  you  to  make  it  real 
tasty,  Mary  Jane ;  for  my  niece  Miss  Smith,  she  that 
was  'Liza  Barber,  is  coming  to  stay  a  while  to  our 
house  this  summer,  and  she  lives  in  the  city,  you 
know." 

"  'Liza  Barber  !  Do  tell !  Why,  I  haven't  seen  her 
sence  she  was  knee-high  to  a  hop-toad,  as  you  may  say. 
He  ain't  livin',  is  he?  " 

"  No  :  he  died  two  years  ago,  leavin'  her  with  three 
children.  Sarah  is  a  grown  girl ;  and  then  there's 
Jack,  he's  eight,  and  Janey,  she's  three.  There  was 
four  died  between  Jack  and  Sarah.  I  guess  she's  full 
eighteen." 

"  Mercy  to  me  !  time  flies,  don't  it?  But  about  the 
bunnit :  what  should  you  say  to  this  lavender  ribbin?  " 
126 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  127 

u  Ain't  I  kind  of  dark  for  lavender?  I  had  an  idee 
to  have  brown,  or  mabbe  dark  green." 

"Land!  for  spring?  Why,  that  ain't  the  right 
thing.  This  lavender  is  real  han'some  ;  and  I'll  set  it 
off  with  a  little  black  lace,  and  put  a  bow  on't  in  the 
front.  It'll  be  real  dressy  and  seemly  for  you." 

' '  Well,  you  can  try  it,  Mary  Jane ;  but  I  give  you 
fair  warnin',  if  I  think  it's  too  dressy,  you'll  have  to 
take  it  all  off." 

"I'm  willin',"  laughed  Miss  Mary  Jane  Beers,  a 
good  old  soul,  and  a  contemporary  of  her  customer, 
Miss  Beulah  Larkin,  who  was  an  old  maid  living  in 
Dorset  on  a  small  amount  of  money  carefully  invested, 
and  owning  the  great  red  house  which  her  grandfather 
had  built  for  a  large  family  on  one  corner  of  his  farm. 
Farm  and  family  were  both  gone  now,  save  and  except 
Miss  Beulah  and  her  niece  ;  but  the  old  lady  and  a 
little  maid  she  had  taken  to  bring  up  dwelt  in  one  end 
of  the  wide  house,  and  contrived  to  draw  more  than 
half  their  subsistence  from  the  garden  and  orchard 
attached  to  it.  Here  they  spun  out  an  innocent  exist 
ence,  whose  chief  dissipations  were  evening  meetings, 
sewing-societies,  funerals,  and  the  regular  Sunday  ser 
vices,  to  which  all  the  village  faithfully  repaired,  and 
any  absence  from  which  was  commented  on,  investi 
gated,  and  reprobated,  if  without  good  excuse,  in  the 
most  unsparing  manner.  Miss  Beulah  Larkin  was  tall, 
gaunt,  hard-featured,  and  good.  Everybody  respected 
her,  some  feared,  and  a  few  loved  her :  but  she  was 
not  that  sort  of  soul  which  thirsts  to  be  loved ;  her 
whole  desire  and  design  was  to  do  her  duty  and  be 
respectable.  Into  this  latter  clause  came  the  matter  of 
a  bonnet,  over  which  she  had  held  such  anxious  dis- 


128  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

course.  If  she  had  any  feminine  vanity,  —  and  she 
was  a  woman,  —  it  took  this  virtuous  aspect  of  a  desire 
to  be  "  respectit  like  the  lave,"  for  decency  of  dress 
as  well  as  demeanor.  This  spring  she  had  received  a 
letter  from  her  niece,  the  widowed  Mrs.  Smith,  asking 
if  she  could  come  to  visit  her ;  and,  sending  back  a 
pleased  assent,  Miss  Beulah  and  her  little  handmaid 
Nanny  Starks  bestirred  themselves  to  sweep  and  gar 
nish  the  house,  already  fresh  and  spotless  from  its  re 
cent  annual  cleaning.  Windows  were  opened,  beds 
put  out  to  sun,  blankets  aired,  spreads  unfolded,  sheets 
taken  from  the  old  chests,  and  long-disused  dimity  cur 
tains  washed,  ironed,  and  tacked  up  against  the  small- 
paned  sashes,  and  tied  back  with  scraps  of  flowered 
ribbon,  exhumed  from  hidden  shelves,  that  might  well 
have  trimmed  that  Leghorn  bonnet  in  its  first  youth. 

Mrs.  Eliza  Smith  was  a  poor  woman,  but  a  woman 
of  resource.  Her  visit  was  not  purely  of  affection,  or 
of  family  respect.  Her  daughter  Sarah  —  a  pretty, 
slight,  graceful  girl,  with  gold-brown  hair,  dark  straight 
brows  above  a  pair  of  limpid  gray  eyes,  red  lips,  and 
a  clear  pale  skin  —  had  been  intended  by  her  mother 
to  blossom  into  beauty  in  due  season,  and  "marry 
well,"  as  the  phrase  goes;  but  Sarah  and  a  certain 
Fred  Wilson,  telegraph-operator  in  Dartford,  had  set 
all  the  thrifty  mother's  plans  at  defiance,  and  fallen 
head  over  heels  in  love,  regardless  of  Mrs.  Smith  or 
anybody  else.  Sarah's  brows  were  not  black  and 
straight,  or  her  chin  firm  and  cleft  with  a  dimple,  for 
nothing :  she  meant  to  marry  Fred  Wilson  as  soon  as 
was  convenient ;  and  Mrs.  Smith,  having  unusual  com 
mon  sense,  as  well  as  previous  experience  of  Sarah's 
capacity  of  resistance,  ceased  to  oppose  that  young 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  129 

lady's  resolute  intention.  Master  Wilson  had  already 
gone  West,  to  a  more  lucrative  situation  than  Dartford 
afforded ;  and  Sarah  was  only  waiting  to  get  ready  as 
to  her  outfit,  and  amass  enough  money  for  the  cost 
of  travelling,  to  follow  him,  since  he  was  unable  to 
return  for  her,  both  from  lack  of  money  and  time. 
In  this  condition  of  things  it  occurred  to  Mrs.  Smith 
that  it  would  save  a  good  deal  of  money  if  she  could 
spend  the  summer  with  Aunt  Beulah,  and  so  be  spared 
the  expense  of  board  and  lodging  for  her  family. 
Accordingly  she  looked  about  for  a  tenant  for  her 
little  house  ;  and,  finding  one  ready  to  come  in  sooner 
than  she  had  anticipated,  she  answered  aunt  Beulah 's 
friendly  letter  of  invitation  with  an  immediate  accept 
ance,  and  followed  her  own  epistle  at  once,  arriving 
just  as  the  last  towel  had  been  hung  on  the  various 
wash-stands,  and  while  yet  the  great  batch  of  sweet 
home-made  bread  was  hot  from  the  oven,  and,  alas 
for  Miss  Beulah  !  before  that  Leghorn  bonnet  had  come 
home  from  Miss  Beers' s  front-parlor,  in  which  she 
carried  on  her  flourishing  millinery  business. 

Miss  Larkiu  was  uufeignedly  glad  to  see  Eliza  again, 
though  her  eyes  grew  a  little  dim,  perceiving  how  time 
had  transformed  the  fresh,  gay  girl  she  remembered 
into  this  sad  and  sallow  woman  ;  but  she  said  nothing 
of  these  changes,  and,  giving  the  rest  an  equal  wel 
come,  established  them  in  the  clean,  large,  cool  cham 
bers  that  were  such  a  contrast  to  the  hot  rooms,  small 
and  dingy,  of  their  city  home. 

Jack  was  a  veritable  little  pickle,  tall  of  his  age, 
and  light  of  foot  and  hand ;  nature  had  framed  him 
in  body  and  mind  for  mischief :  while  Sarah  was  a 
pleasant,  handy  young  girl,  as  long  as  nothing  opposed 


130  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

her ;  and  Janey  a  round  and  rosy  poppet,  who  adored 
Jack,  and  rebelled  against  her  mother  and  Sarah 
hourly.  Jack  was  a  born  nuisance  :  Miss  Beulah  could 
hardly  endure  him,  he  did  so  controvert  all  the  orders 
and  manners  of  her  neat  house.  He  hunted  the  hens 
to  the  brink  of  distraction,  and  broke  up  their  nests 
till  eggs  were  scarce  to  find,  —  a  state  of  things  never 
before  known  in  that  old  barn,  where  the  hens  had 
dwelt  and  done  their  duty,  till  that  duty  had  consigned 
them  to  the  stew-pan,  for  years  and  years.  He  made 
the  cat's  life  a  burden  to  her  in  a  hundred  ways  ;  and 
poor  Nanny  Starks  had  never  any  rest  or  peace  till  her 
tormentor  was  safe  in  bed. 

Mrs.  Smith  began  to  fear  her  visit  would  be  prema 
turely  shortened  on  Jack's  account :  and  Sarah,  who 
had  wisely  confided  her  love-affair  to  aunt  Beulah,  and 
stirred  that  hardened  heart  to  its  core  by  her  pathetic 
tale  of  poverty  and  separation,  began  to  dread  the 
failure  of  her  hopes  also  ;  for  her  aunt  had  more  than 
hinted  that  she  would  give  something  toward  that  trav 
elling  money  which  was  now  the  girl's  great  object 
in  life,  since  by  diligent  sewing  she  had  almost  finished 
her  bridal  outfit.  As  for  Janey,  she  was  already,  in 
spite  of  her  naughtiness,  mistress  of  aunt  Beulah's 
very  soul.  Round,  fat,  rosy,  bewitching  as  a  child  and 
only  a  child  can  be,  the  poor  spinster's  repressed 
affection,  her  denied  maternity,  her  love  of  beauty,  — 
a  secret  to  herself,  —  and  her  protecting  instinct,  all 
blossomed  for  this  baby,  who  stormed  or  smiled  at 
her  according  to  the  caprice  of  the  hour,  but  was 
equally  lovely  in  the  old  lady's  eyes  whether  she 
smiled  or  stormed.  If  Janey  said,  "Turn!"  in  her 
imperative  way,  Miss  Beulah  came,  whether  her  hands 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  131 

were  in  the  wash-tub  or  the  bread-tray.  Janey  ran 
riot  over  her  most  cherished  customs  ;  and,  while  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  scold  or  even  slap  Jack  harshly  for 
his  derelictions,  she  had  an  excuse  always  ready  for 
Janey's  worst  sins,  and  a  kiss  instead  of  a  blow  for  her 
wildest  exploits  of  mischief.  Jack  hated  the  old  aunty 
as  much  as  he  feared  her  tongue  and  hand :  and  this 
only  made  matters  worse  ;  for  he  felt  a  certain  right  to 
torment  her  that  would  not  have  been  considered  a 
right,  had  he  felt  instead  any  shame  for  abusing  her 
kindness.  But  a  soft  answer  from  her  never  turned 
away  his  wrath,  or  this  tale  of  woe  about  her  bonnet 
had  never  been  told. 

There  had  been  long  delay  concerning  that  article. 
The  bleacher  had  been  slow,  and  the  presser  imprac 
ticable  :  it  had  been  sent  back  once  to  be  reshaped, 
and  then  the  lavender  ribbon  had  proved  of  scant 
measure,  and  had  to  be  matched.  But  at  last,  one  hot 
day  in  May,  Nanny  brought  the  queer  old  bandbox 
home  from  Miss  Beers's,  and  aunt  Beulah  held  up  her 
head-gear  to  be  commented  on.  It  was  really  a  very 
good-looking  bonnet.  The  firm  satin  ribbon  was  a  pleas 
ant  tint,  and  contrasted  well  with  the  pale  color  of  the 
Leghorn  ;  and  a  judicious  use  of  black  lace  gave  it  an 
air  of  sobriety  and  elegance  combined,  which  pleased 
Miss  Beulah's  eye,  and  even  moved  Mrs.  Smith  to 
express  approbation. 

"Well,  I'm  free  to  own  it  suits  me,"  said  the  old 
lady,  eying  the  glass  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  as  a  bird  eyes  a  worm.  "It's  neat,  and  it's 
becomin',  as  fur  as  a  bunnit  can  be  said  to  be  becomin' 
to  an  old  woman,  though  I  ain't  really  to  call  old. 
Mary  Jane  Beers  is  older  than  me  ;  and  she  ain't  but 


132  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

seventy- three, — jest  as  spry  as  a  lark  too.  Yes,  I 
like  the  bunnit ;  but  it  doos  —  sort  of  —  seem  —  as 
though  that  there  bow  wa'n't  really  in  the  middle  of 
it.  What  do  you  think,  'Lizy?" 

"  I  don't  see  but  what  it's  straight,  aunt  Beulah." 

" 'Tain't,"  said  the  spinster  firmly.  "  Sary,  you 
look  at  it." 

Sarah's  eye  was  truer  than  her  mother's.  "  'Tis  a 
mite  too  far  to  the  left,  aunt  Beulah  ;  but  I  guess  I 
can  fix  it." 

"  You  let  her  take  it,"  said  Mrs.  Smith.  "  She's  a 
real  good  hand  at  millinery :  she  made  her  own  hat, 
and  Janey's  too,  I  should  hate  to  have  her  put  her 
hand  to  that  bunnit  if  she  wa'n't ;  for  it's  real  pretty  — 
'specially  for  a  place  like  Dorset  to  get  up." 

"  Lay  it  off  on  the  table,  aunt  Beulah.  I'm  going 
up  stairs  to  make  my  bed,  and.  I'll  fetch  my  work- 
basket  down,  and  fix  that  bow  straight  in  a  jiffy." 

4 'Well,  I  must  go  up  too,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  and 
followed  Sarah  out  of  the  room  ;  but  Miss  Beulah, 
though  duty  called,  her  too,  in  the  imperative  shape 
of  a  batch  of  bread  waiting  to  be  moulded  up,  lingered 
a  little  longer,  poising  the  bonnet  on  her  hand,  holding 
it  off  to  get  a  distant  view,  turning  it  from  side  to 
side,  and,  in  short,  behaving  exactly  as  younger  and 
prettier  women  do  over  a  new  hat,  even  when  it  is  a 
miracle  of  art  from  Paris,  instead  of  a  revamped  Leg 
horn  from  a  country  shop. 

She  laid  it  down  with  a  long  breath  of  content,  for 
taste  and  economy  had  done  their  best  for  her ;  and 
then  she,  too,  left  the  room,  never  perceiving  that  Jack 
and  Janey  had  been  all  the  time  deeply  engaged  under 
the  great  old-fashioned  breakfast- table,  silently  ripping 


MTSS    BEULAH'S    BONNET.  133 

up  a  new  doll  to  see  what  was  inside  it,  —  silently,  be 
cause  they  had  an  inward  consciousness  that  it  was 
mischief  they  were  about ;  and  Jack,  at  least,  did  not 
want  to  be  interrupted  till  he  was  through.  But  he 
had  not  been  too  busy  to  hear  and  understand  that  aunt 
Beulah  was  pleased  ;  and,  still  smarting  from  the  switch 
with  which  she  had  whipped  his  shoulders  that  very 
morning  for  putting  the  cat  into  the  cistern,  he  saw 
an  opportunity  for  revenge  before  his  eyes :  he  would 
hide  this  precious  bonnet  so  aunt  Beulah  could  never 
find  it  again.  How  to  do  this,  and  not  be  found  out, 
was  a  problem  to  be  considered  ;  but  mischief  is  quick 
witted.  There  stood  in  the  window  a  large  rocking- 
chair,  well  stuffed  under  its  chintz  cover,  and  holding 
a  plump  soft  feather  cushion  so  big  it  fairly  overflowed 
the  seat.  Under  this  cushion  he  was  sure  nobody 
would  think  of  looking ;  and,  to  save  himself  from 
consequences,  he  resolved  to  make  Janey  a  cat's-paw  : 
so  he  led  her  up  to  the  table,  made  her  lift  the  precious 
hat  and  deposit  it  under  the  cushion,  which  he  rais'ed 
for  the  purpose ;  then,  carefully  dropping  the  frill,  he 
tugged  Janey,  unwilling  but  scared  and  silent,  out 
into  the  yard,  and,  impressing  on  her  infant  mind  with 
wild  threats  of  bears  and  guns  that  she  must  never 
tell  where  the  bonnet  was,  he  contrived  to  interest  her 
in  a  new  play  so  intensely,  that  the  bonnet  went  utterly 
into  oblivion,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned ;  and  when 
they  were  called  in  to  dinner,  and  she  had  taken  her 
daily  nap,  Janey  had  become  as  innocent  of  mischief 
in  her  own  memory  as  the  dolly  who  lay  all  disembow 
eled  and  forlorn  under  the  table. 

When  Sarah  came  down  and  did  not  find  the  bonnet, 
she  concluded  aunt  Beulah  had  put  it  away  in  her  own 


134  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

room,  for  fear  a  sacrilegious  fly  or  heedless  speck 
of  dust  might  do  it  harm  :  so  she  took  up  a  bit  of  lace 
she  was  knitting,  and  went  out  into  the  porch,  glad  to 
get  into  a  cool  place,  the  day  was  so  warm. 

And  when  the  bread  was  moulded  up,  aunt  Beulah 
came  back,  and,  not  seeing  her  bonnet,  supposed  Sarah 
had  taken  it  up  stairs  to  change  the  bow.  She  was 
not  an  impatient  woman,  and  the  matter  was  not 
pressing :  so  she  said  nothing  about  the  bonnet  at 
dinner,  but  hurried  over  that  meal  in  order  to  finish 
her  baking.  Mis.  Smith  had  not  come  down  again, 
for  a  morning  headache  had  so  increased  upon  her,  she 
had  lain  down  :  so  that  no  one  disturbed  the  rocking- 
chair  in  which  that  bonnet  lay  hid  till  Mrs.  Blake,  the 
minister's  wife,  came  in  to  make  a  call  about  four 
o'clock.  She  was  a  stout  woman,  and  the  walk  had 
tired  her.  Aunt  Beulah' s  hospitable  instincts  were 
roused  by  that  red,  weary  face. 

"You're  dreadful  warm,  ain't  you,  Miss  Blake?" 
said  she.  "It's  an  amazin'  warm  day  for  this  time 
of  year,  and  it's  considerable  morc'n  a  hen-hop  from 
your  house  up  here.  Lay  your  bunnit  off,  do,  and  set 
down  in  the  rocker.  I'll  tell  Nanny  to  fetch  some 
shrub  and  water.  Our  ras'berry  shrub  is  good,  if  I  do 
say  it ;  and  it's  kep'  over  as  good  as  new." 

So  Mrs.  Blake  removed  her  bonnet,  and  sank  down 
on  that  inviting  cushion  with  all  her  weight,  glad 
enough  to  rest,  and  ignorant  of  the  momentous  conse 
quences.  Her  call  was  somewhat  protracted.  Had 
there  been  any  pins  in  that  flattened  Leghorn  beneath 
her,  she  might  have  shortened  her  stay.  But  Miss  Mary 
Jane  Beers  was  conscientiously  opposed  to  pins ;  and 
every  lavender  bow  was  sewed  on  with  silk  to  match, 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  135 

and  scrupulous  care.  After  the  whole  village  news 
had  been  discussed,  the  state  of  religion  lamented,  and 
the  short-comings  of  certain  sisters  who  failed  in  at 
tending  prayer-meetings  talked  over,  —  with  the  chari 
table  admission,  to  be  sure,  that  one  had  a  young  baby, 
and  another  a  sprained  ankle,  — Mrs.  Blake  rose  to  go, 
tied  on  her  bonnet,  and  said  good-by  all  round,  quite 
as  ignorant  as  her  hosts  of  the  remediless  ruin  she  had 
done. 

It  was  tea-time  now  ;  and,  as  they  sat  about  the  table, 
Sarah  said,  "I  guess  I'll  fix  your  bonnet  after  tea, 
aunty  :  'twon't  take  but  a  minute,  and  I'd  rather  do 
it  while  I  recollect  just  where  that  bow  goes." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  had  fixed  it !  "  returned  Miss 
Beulah. 

"  Well,  I  came  right  back  to  ;  but  it  wa'n't  here.  I 
thought  you'd  took  it  into  your  bedroom." 

"I  hain't  touched  it  sence  it  lay  right  here  on  the 
table." 

"I'll  run  up  and  ask  ma :  maybe  she  laid  it  by." 

But  Mrs.  Smith  had  not  been  down  stairs  since  she 
left  aunt  Beulah  with  the  bonnet  in  her  hands.  And 
now  the  old  lady  turned  on  Jack.  "Have  you  ben 
and  carried  off  my  buunit,  you  little  besom  ? ' ' 

u  I  hain't  touched  your  old  bonnet!"  retorted  Jack 
with  grand  scorn. 

u  I  don't  believe  he  has,"  said  Sarah;  "for,  when 
I  corne  down  stairs  and  found  it  wa'n't  here,  I  went  out 
and  set  on  the  bench  to  the  front-door,  and  I  heard 
him  and  Janey  away  off  the  other  side  of  the  yard, 
playin'  ;  and  you  know  they  wa'n't  in  here  when  the 
bonnet  come." 

"Well,   of   course   Janey   hasn't   seen   it,    if  Jack 


136 


hasn't ;  and,  if  she  had,  the  blessed  child  wouldn't 
have  touched  old  aunty's  bonnet  for  a  dollar  —  would 
she,  precious  lamb?"  And  aunt  Beulah  stroked  the 
bright  curls  of  her  darling,  who  looked  up  into  her 
face,  and  laughed  ;  while  Jack  grinned  broadly  between 
his  bites  of  bread  and  butter,  master  of  the  situation, 
and  full  of  sweet  revenge.  "And  Nanny  hain't  seen 
it,  I  know,"  went  on  aunt  Beulah  ;  "  for  she  was  along 
of  me  the  whole  enduring  time.  She  set  right  to  a-parin' 
them  Roxbury  russets  the  minnit  she  fetched  home  the 
bunnit ;  and  I  kep'  her  on  the  tight  jump  ever  sence, 
because  it's  bakm'-day,  and  there  was  a  sight  to  do. 
But  I'll  ask  her :  'tain't  lost  breath  to  ask,  my  mother 
used  to  say,  and  mabbe  it's  a  gain." 

The  old  lady  strode  out  into  the  kitchen  with  knit 
brows,  but  came  back  without  any  increased  knowl 
edge.  "She  hain't  ben  in  here  once  sence  she  set 
down  the  bandbox ;  and,  come  to  think  on't,  I  know 
she  hain't,  for  I  cleared  the  table  myself  to-day,  and, 
besides,  the  bunnit  wa'n't  here  at  dinner-time.  Now 
let's  hunt  for  it.  Things  don't  gener'lly  vanish  away 
without  hands  ;  but,  if  we  can't  find  no  hands,  why,  it's 
as  good  as  the  next  thing  to  look  for  the  bunnit." 

So  they  went  to  work  and  searched  the  house,  as 
they  thought,  most  thoroughly.  No  nook  or  corner  but 
was  investigated,  if  it  was  large  enough  to  hold  that 
bonnet ;  but  nobody  once  thought  of  looking  under  the 
chair-cushion.  If  it  had  been  as  plump  and  fluffy  as 
when  Jack  first  had  Janey  put  the  lost  structure  under 
it,  there  might  have  been  a  suspicion  of  its  hiding- 
place  ;  but  Mrs.  Blake's  two  hundred  pounds  of  solid 
flesh  had  reduced  bonnet  and  cushion  alike  to  unusual 
flatness.  Or,  if  it  had  been  any  other  day  but  Satur- 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  137 

day,  the  chair  might  have  been  dusted  and  shaken  up, 
and  revealed  its  mystery  ;  but  early  that  very  morning 
the  house  below  stairs  had  been  swept,  and  the  furni 
ture  dusted,  the  cushions  shaken  out,  the  brasses  pol 
ished,  and  all  the  weekly  order  and  purity  restored 
everywhere.  The  bonnet  was  evidently  lost ;  and  Jack, 
who  had  followed  the  domestic  detectives  up  stairs 
and  down,  retired  behind  the  wood-pile,  and  executed  a 
joyful  dance  to  relieve  his  suppressed  feelings,  snap 
ping  his  fingers,  and  slapping  his  knees,  and  shouting 
scraps  of  all  the  expletives  he  knew,  in  the  joy  of  his 
heart.  How  tragic  would  this  mirth  have  seemed  to  a 
spectator  aware  of  its  cause,  contrasted  with  the  por 
tentous  gloom  on  aunt  Beulah's  forehead,  and  the 
abstracted  glare  of  her  eye !  For  several  days  this 
deluded  spinster  mused  and  mazed  over  her  bonnet, 
going  to  church  on  Sunday  in  her  shabby  old  velvet 
hat,  which  had  scarcely  been  respectable  before,  but 
now,  in  the  glare  of  a  hot  May  sun,  not  only  showed 
all  its  rubbed  and  worn  places,  its  shiny  streaks  and 
traces  of  eaves-drops  in  the  depressed  and  tangled 
nap,  but  also  made  her  head  so  hot  that  she  fairly  went 
to  bed  at  last  with  sick-headache,  unable  to  attend  even 
ing  service,  —  a  most  unheard-of  thing  for  her. 

Before  the  week  was  half  done,  she  had  settled  into 
a  profound  belief  that  some  tramp  had  passed  while 
they  were  all  out  of  the  room,  and,  charmed  by  that 
lavender  satin  ribbon  and  black  lace,  stolen  the  bonnet, 
and  carried  it  off  to  sell ;  and  many  a  time  did  Miss 
Beulah  sit  rocking  to  and  fro  on  top  of  her  precious 
Leghorn,  wondering  and  bemoaning  at  its  loss.  But 
murder  will  out  —  sometimes,  and  would  certainly  have 
come  out  in  the  weekly  cleaning  the  next  Saturday, 


138  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

if,  on  the  Friday  morning,  Miss  Beulah  had  not  set 
down  a  pitcher  of  milk,  just  brought  in  by  a  neighbor, 
on  the  end  of  the  table  nearest  to  that  rocking-chair,  — 
set  it  down  only  for  a  moment,  to  get  the  neighbor  a 
recipe  for  sugar  gingerbread  peculiar  to  the  Larkiu 
family.  Janey  happened  to  be  thirsty,  and  reached 
after  the  pitcher,  but  was  just  tall  enough  to  grasp  the 
handle  so  low  down,  that  when  she  pulled  at  it,  steady 
ing  herself  against  the  chair,  it  tipped  sideways,  and 
poured  a  copious  stream  of  fresh  milk  on  the  cushion. 
The  chintz  was  old,  and  had  lost  its  glaze,  and  the 
feathers  were  light :  so  the  rich  fluid  soaked  in  at 
once ;  and  before  the  two  women,  recalled  from  the 
cupboard  by  Janey 's  scream,  could  reach  the  pitcher, 
there  was  only  a  very  soppy  and  wet  cushion  in  the 
chair. 

"  For  mercy's  sakes  !  "  said  the  neighbor.  But  Miss 
Beulah,  with  great  presence  of  mind,  snatched  up  the 
dripping  mass  and  flung  it  out  of  the  open  window, 
lest  her  carpet  should  suffer.  She  reverted  to  the  chair 
in  a  second,  and  stood  transfixed. 

"What  under  the  everlastin'  canopy!"  broke  from 
her  dismayed  lips  ;  for  there,  flattened  out  almost  be 
yond  recognition,  and  broken  wherever  it  was  bent,  its 
lavender  ribbons  soaked  with  milk,  the  cheap  lace  limp 
and  draggled,  lay  the  remains  of  the  Leghorn  bonnet. 

' '  Of  all  things  ! ' '  exclaimed  the  neighbor  ;  but  there 
was  an  echo  of  irrepressible  amusement  in  her  tones. 
Aunt  Beulah  glared  at  her,  and  lifted  the  damp  bonnet 
as  tenderly  as  if  it  had  been  Janey 's  curls,  regarding 
it  with  an  expression  pen  or  pencil  fails  to  depict,  —  a 
mixture  of  grief,  pity,  indignation,  and  amazement, 
that,  together  with  the  curious  look  of  the  bonnet,  was 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  139 

too  much  for  the  neighbor ;  and,  to  use  her  own  after- 
expression  in  describing  the  scene,  she  "snickered 
right  out." 

"  Laugh,  do,"  said  aunt  Beulah  witheringly,  —  "do 
laugh !  I  guess,  if  your  best  bunnit  had  ben  set  on 
and  drownded,  you'd  laugh  the  other  side  o'  your 
mouth,  Miss  Jackson.  This  is  too  much." 

"  Well,  I  be  sorry,"  said  the  placable  female  ;  "  but 
it  doos  look  so  dreadful  ridiculous  like,  I  couldn't  no 
ways  help  myself.  But  how  on  earth  did  it  git  there, 
I  admire  to  know?  " 

"  I  dono  myself  as  I  know  ;  but  I  hain't  a  doubt  in 
my  own  mind  it  was  that  besom  of  a  Jack.  He  is  the 
fullest  of  'riginal  sin  and  actual  transgression  of  any 
boy  I  ever  see.  He  did  say,  now  I  call  to  mind,  that 
he  hadn't  never  touched  it ;  but  I  mistrust  he  did.  He 
beats  all  for  mischief  that  ever  I  see.  I'm  free  to  say 
I  never  did  like  boys.  I  suppose  divine  Providence 
ordained  'em  to  some  good  end  ;  but  it  takes  a  sight  o' 
grace  to  believe  it :  and,  of  all  the  boys  that  ever  was 
sent  into  this  world  for  any  purpose,  I  do  believe  he  is 
the  hatefulest.  I'd  jest  got  my  bunnit  to  my  mind, 
calc' latin'  to  wear  it  all  summer  ;  and  I  am  a  mite  per- 
nickity,  I'll  allow  that,  about  my  bunnits.  Well, 
'tain't  no  use  to  cry  over  spilt  milk." 

"I'll  fetch  ye  some  more  to-morrow,"  said  the  lit 
eral  neighbor. 

"  You're  real  good,  Miss  Jackson  ;  but  I'm  more  ex 
ercised  a  lot  about  my  bunnit  than  I  be  about  the  milk. 
—  Sary,  look  a-here  !  " 

Sarah,  just  coming  in  at  the  door,  did  look,  and,  like 
Mrs.  Jackson,  felt  a  strong  desire  to  smile,  but  with 
native  tact  controlled  it. 


140  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Why,  where  on  earth  did  you  find  it,  aunt 
Beulah?" 

"  Right  under  the  rocker- cushion.  It  must  have  ben 
there  when  Miss  Blake  come  in  that  day  and  set  down 
there  ;  for  I  remember  thinkin'  Nanny  must  ha'  shook 
that  cushion  up  more'n  usual,  it  looked  so  comfortable 
and  high." 

"  I  don't  wonder  it's  flat,  if  Miss  Blake  set  on't," 
giggled  Mrs.  Jackson,  at  which  aunt  Beulah 's  face 
darkened  so  perceptibly  that  the  good  neighbor  took 
her  leave.  Comedy  to  her  was  tragedy  to  the  unhappy 
owner  of  the  bonnet ;  and  she  had  the  sense  to  know 
she  was  alien  to  the  spirit  of  the  hour,  and  go  home. 

"  But  how  did  it  get  there?  "  asked  Sarah. 

"You  tell,"  replied  Miss  Beulah,  "for  I  can't.  I 
do  mistrust  Jack." 

"Jack  said  he  hadn't  touched  it,  though;  and  it 
couldn't  get  there  without  hands." 

"Well,  mabbe  Jack  don't  always  say  the  thing  that 
is.  '  Foolishness  is  bound  up  in  the  heart  of  a  child,' 
Scriptur  says  ;  and  I  guess  he  hain't  had  enough  of  the 
rod  o'  correction  to  drive  it  out  of  him  yet.  He's  the 
behavin'est  youngster  Jever  see  ;  and  I'm  q.uite  along 
in  years,  if  I  be  spry." 

"I'll  call  him,  aunty,  and  see  what  he'll  say  this 
time." 

" 'Twon't  be  no  use:  if  he's  lied  once,  he'll  lie 
twice.  Scriptur  says  the  Devil  was  a  liar  from  the  be- 
ginnin'  ;  and  I  expect  that  means  that  lyin'  is  ingrain. 
I  never  knowed  it  to  be  fairly  knocked  out  of  anybody 
yet,  even  when  amazin'  grace  wrastled  with  it. 
There's  Deacon  Shubael  Morse :  why,  he's  as  good  as 
gold  ;  but  them  Morses  is  a  proverb,  you  may  say,  and 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  141 

always  lies  ben,  time  out  o'  mind, — born  liars,  so  to 
speak.  I've  heerd  Grandsir  Larkin  say,  that,  as  fur 
back  as  he  could  call  to  mind,  folks  would  say,  — 

'  Steal  a  horse, 
An'  b'lieve  a  Morse.' 

But  the  deacon  he's  a  hero  at  prayer,  and  gives  heaps 
to  the  s'cieties  ;  but  he  ain't  reely  to  be  relied  on.  He's 
sharper'n  a  needle  to  bargain  with  ;  and,  if  his  word 
ain't  writ  down  in  black  and  white,  why,  'tain't  no 
where.  He  don't  read  no  novils,  nor  play  no  cards : 
he'd  jest  as  lives  swear  outright  as  do  one  or  t'other. 
But  I  do  say  for't,  I'd  rather  myself  see  him  real  honest 
than  any  o'  them  things.  I  don't  believe  in  no  sort  o' 
professin'  that  falls  short  in  practisin'  ;  but  I  can't 
somehow  feel  so  real  spry  to  blame  the  deacon  as 
though  he  wa'n't  a  Morse.  But  you  call  Jack  any 
how." 

So  Jack  was  called. 

He  came  in,  with  Janey,  flushed,  lovely,  and  dirty, 
trotting  behind  him,  and  was  confronted  with  the 
bonnet. 

"  Jack,  did  you  hide  it?  " 

"  I  hain't  touched  your  old  bonnet.  I  said  so  be 
fore." 

An  idea  struck  Sarah. 

"  Janey,"  she  said  sharply,  "did  you  put  aunty's 
bonnet  under  the  cushion?  " 

"Janey  don't  'member,"  said  the  child,  smiling  as 
innocently  as  the  conventional  cherub  of  art. 

"Well,  you  must  remember!"  said  Sarah,  picking 
her  up  from  the  floor,  and  setting  her  down  with  em 
phasis  on  the  table. 


142 


Janey  began  to  cry. 

"  Naughty  Salah  hurt  Janey  !  "  and  the  piteous  tears 
coursed  down  her  rosy,  dust-smeared  cheeks  from  those 
big  blue  eyes  that  looked  like  dew-drowned  forget-me- 
nots. 

Aunt  Beulah  could  not  stand  this.  "You  let  that 
baby  alone,  Sarah !  She  don't  know  enough  to  be 
naughty,  bless  her  dear  little  soul !  —  There,  there, 
don't  you  cry  a  mite  more,  Janey.  Aunty'll  give  you 
ginger-cooky  this  very  minute  !  " 

And  Janey  was  comforted  with  kisses  and  smiles  and 
gingerbread,  her  face  washed,  and  her  curls  softly 
turned  on  tender  fingers  ;  while  Jack,  longing  for  gin 
gerbread  with  the  preternatural  appetite  of  a  growing 
boy,  was  sent  off  in  disgrace. 

"  I  make  no  doubt  you  done  it,  you  little  rascal,  and 
lied  it  out  too.  But  I  don't  b'lieve  you  no  more  for 
your  lyin'  :  so  don't  look  for  no  extries  from  me. 
Fellers  like  you  don't  get  gingerbread  nor  turnovers, 
now  I  tell  you  !  ' ' 

How  Jack  hated  her !  How  glad  he  was  he  had 
spoiled  her  bonnet !  Shall  I  draw  a  moral  here  to 
adorn  my  tale  ?  No,  dear  reader  :  this  is  not  a  treatise 
on  education.  Miss  Beulah  was  a  good  woman  ;  and  if 
she  made  mistakes,  like  the  rest  of  us,  she  took  the 
consequences  as  the  rest  of  us  do ;  and  the  conse 
quences  of  this  spoiled  bonnet  were  not  yet  ended. 

She  felt  as  if  she  must  have  a  new  one  for  Sunday. 
She  really  did  not  know  how  to  afford  it ;  for  she  had 
promised  to  help  Sarah,  and  in  her  eyes  a  promise  was 
as  sacred  as  an  oath.  And,  as  for  giving  up  her  sub 
scriptions  to  home  missions,  that  would  be  a  wilful  sin. 
But,  without  a  bonnet,  she  could  not  go  to  meeting  ;  and 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  143 

that  was  a  sin  too.  So  she  put  on  her  sun-bonnet ;  and 
taking  the  wreck  of  the  Leghorn,  carefully  concealed 
in  a  paper,  she  set  out  after  tea  that  same  evening  for 
a  conference  with  Miss  Beers,  stopping  at  the  post- 
office  as  she  went  along.  She  found  one  letter  await 
ing  her,  and  knew  by  the  superscription  that  it  was 
from  a  second-cousin  of  hers  in  Dartford,  who  had 
charge  of  such  money  of  hers  as  was  not  in  the  sav 
ings  bank  or  Dartford  and  Oldbay  Railroad  stock,  —  a 
road  paying  steady  dividends.  But,  besides  the  three 
or  four  thousands  in  these  safe  investments  that  Miss 
Beulah  owned,  she  had  two  shares  in  a  manufacturing 
company,  and  one  in  Dartford  Bridge  stock,  from 
which  her  cousin  duly  remitted  the  annual  dividends : 
so,  knowing  what  was  in  the  letter,  for  the  tool  com 
pany's  payment  was  just  due,  she  did  not  open  it  till 
she  sat  down  in  Miss  Beers 's  shop,  and  first  opened  the 
Leghorn  to  view. 

"  Of  all  things  !  "  said  Miss  Beers,  lifting  up  hands 
and  eyes  during  Miss  Beulah's  explanations.  "And 
you  can't  do  nothing  with  it  —  never.  Why,  it's  flat- 
ter'n  a  pancake.  Well,  you  couldn't  expect  nothing 
else,  with  Miss  Blake  on  top  on't :  she'd  squash  a  baby 
out  as  thin  as  a  tin  plate  if  she  happened  to  set  on't, 
which  I  do  hope  she  won't.  See  !  the  Leghorn's  all 
broke  up.  I  told  you  'twas  dreadful  brittle.  And  the 
ribbin  is  spoiled  entire.  You  can't  never  clean  laven 
der,  nor  yet  satin,  it  frays  so.  And  the  lace  is  all  gum  : 
anyway,  that's  gone.  Might  as  well  chuck  the  hull 
into  the  fire." 

"  So  do,  Mary  Jane,  so  do.  I  never  want  to  set 
eyes  on't  again.  I  haven't  no  patience  with  that  boy 
now,  and  the  bunnit  riles  me  to  look  at.  I  do  want-  to 


144 


do  right  by  the  boy,  but  it  goes  against  the  grain 
dreadful.  I  mistrust  I  shall  have  to  watch  and  pray 
real  hard  before  I  can  anyway  have  patience  with  him. 
I  tell  you  he's  a  cross  to  'Liza  as  well  as  to  me.  But 
don't  let's  talk  about  him.  What  have  you  got  that'll 
do  for  a  bunnit  for  me  ?  ' ' 

Then  the  merits  of  the  various  bonnets  in  Miss 
Beers 's  small  stock  were  canvassed.  A  nice  black 
chip  suited  aunt  Bculah  well ;  and  a  gray  corded  ribbon, 
with  a  cluster  of  dark  pansies,  seemed  just  the  thing 
for  trimming.  In  fact,  she  liked  it,  and  with  good 
reason,  better  than  the  Leghorn  ;  but  it  was  expensive. 
All  the  materials,  though  simple,  were  good  and  rich. 
Try  as  she  would,  Miss  Beers  could  not  get  it  up  for 
less  than  six  dollars,  and  that  only  allowed  twenty-five 
cents  for  her  own  work.  The  alternative  was  a  heavy 
coarse  straw,  which  she  proposed  to  deck  with  a 
yellow-edged  black  ribbon,  and  put  some  gold-eyed 
black  daisies  inside.  But  Miss  Beulah  did  want  the 
chip. 

"Let's  see,"  said  she.  "  Mabbe  this  year's  divi 
dend  is  seven  per  cent :  'tis  once  in  a  while.  I'll  see 
what  cousin  Joseph  says.  If  'tain't  more  than  usual, 
I  must  take  the  straw." 

But  cousin  Joseph  had  to  tell  her,  that  owing  to 
damage  by  flood  and  fire,  as  well  as  a  general  disturb 
ance  of  business  all  over  the  country,  the  C.  A.  Com 
pany  paid  no  dividend  this  year. 

"•  Then  I  sha'n't  have  no  bunnit,"  said  Miss  Larkin 
firmly. 

"  Why,  you've  got  to  have  some  kind  of  a  bunnit," 
said  the  amazed  Miss  Beers. 

"  I  hain't  got  to  if  I  can't." 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  145 

"But  why  can't  ye,  Benlah?  All  your  money  and 
all  your  dividends  ain't  in  that  comp'ny." 

"Well,  there's  other  uses  for  money  this  year  be 
sides  bunnits." 

"  You  can't  go  to  meetin'." 

"  I  can  stay  to  home." 

"Why,  Beulah  Larkin,  I'll  trust  you,  and  wel 
come." 

"  But  I  won't  be  trusted.  I  never  was,  and  I  never 
will  be.  What  if  I  should  up  and  die?  " 

"I'd  sue  the  estate,"  practically  remarked  Miss 
Beers. 

"  No  :  '  out  of  debt,  out  of  danger/  mother  always 
said,  and  I  believe  in't.  I  shall  hate  to  stay  to  home 
Sundays,  but  I  can  go  to  prayer-meetin'  in  my  slat 
bunuit  well  enough." 

"Why,  the  church'll  deal  with  ye,  Beulah,  if  ye 
neglect  stated  means  of  grace." 

"Let  'em  deal,"  was  the  undaunted  answer.  Miss 
Beulah  had  faced  the  situation,  arranged  it  logically, 
and  accepted  it.  She  had  promised  Sarah  fifteen  dol 
lars  in  June.  She  had  lost  a  dividend  of  twelve  dollars 
on  which  she  had  reckoned  with  certainty  ;  five  dollars 
was  due  to  home  missions  ;  and,  with  her  increased 
family,  there  would  be  no  margin  for  daily  expenses. 
There  were  twenty  dollars  in  the  savings  bank  over  and 
above  the  five  hundred  she  had  laid  up  for  a  rainy  day, 
and  left  in  her  will,  made  and  signed  but  last  week,  to 
little  Janey.  On  this  she  would  not  trench,  come  what 
might,  except  in  case  of  absolute  distress ;  and  the 
twenty  dollars  were  sacred  to  Sarah  and  home  mis 
sions.  But  this  was  her  private  affair :  she  would  not 
make  the  poverty  of  her  niece  known  abroad,  or  the 


146 


nature  of  her  will.  If  the  church  chose  to  deal  with 
her,  it  might ;  but  her  lips  should  never  open  to  ex 
plain, —  a  commonplace  martyrdom  enough,  and  less 
than  saintly  because  so  much  of  human  pride  and 
self-will  mingled  in  its  suffering ;  yet  honesty  and  up 
rightness  are  so  scarce  in  these  days  as  to  make  even 
such  a  sturdy  witness  for  them  respectable,  and  many 
a  woman  who  counts  herself  a  model  of  sanctity  might 
shrink  from  a  like  daily  ordeal.  But  aunt  Beulah  set 
her  face  as  a  flint,  and  pursued  her  way  in  silence. 
June  came  and  went ;  and  with  it  went  Sarah  to  her 
expectant  bridegroom  in  Chicago,  from  whence  a  paper 
with  due  notice  of  her  marriage  presently  returned. 
Aunt  Beulah  strove  hard  to  make  both  ends  meet 
in  her  housekeeping,  and,  being  a  close  manager, 
succeeded.  There  was  no  margin,  not  even  twenty-five 
spare  cents  to  take  Janey  to  the  circus  ;  though  she  cut 
aunt  Beulah 's  heart  with  entreaties  to  be  taken  to  see 
"  lions  an'  el'phants,"  and  said,  "  P'ease  take  Janey," 
in  a  way  to  melt  a  stone.  For  to  get  food  enough  to 
satisfy  Jack  was  in  itself  a  problem.  Often  and  often 
the  vexed  spinster  declared  to  Nanny,  her  sympathizing 
handmaid,  — 

"  '  Tain't  no  use  a-tryin'  to  fill  him.  He's  holler 
down  to  his  boots,  I  know.  He  eat  six  b'iled  eggs  for 
breakfast,  and  heaps  of  johnny-cake,  besides  a  pint  o' 
milk,  and  was  as  sharp-set  for  dinner  as  though  he'd 
ben  a-mowin'  all  the  forenoon.  'Lizy  says  he's  grow- 
in'  :  if  he  grows  anyways  accordin'  to  what  he  eats, 
he'll  be  as  big  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  as  sure  as  you're 
born.  I  don't  begrudge  the  boy  reasonable  vittles, 
but  I  can't  buy  butcher 's-meat  enough  to  satisfy  him 
noway.  And  as  to  garden  sass,  he  won't  eat  none. 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  147 

That  would  be  real  fillin'  if  he  would.  Thanks  be  to 
praise  !  he  likes  Indian.  Pudding  and  johnny-cake  do 
help  a  sight." 

But  while  aunt  Beulah  toiled  and  moiled,  and  filled 
her  wide  measure  of  charity  toward  these  widowed  and 
fatherless  with  generous  hand,  the  church,  mightily 
scandalized  at  her  absence  from  its  services,  was  pi*e- 
paring  to  throw  a  shell  into  her  premises.  It  was  all 
very  well  to  say  to  Miss  Beers  that  she  was  not  afraid 
of  such  a  visitation  ;  but  a  trouble  at  hand  is  of  quite 
another  aspect  than  a  trouble  afar  off.  Her  heart  quailed 
and  fluttered,  when,  one  July  afternoon,  Nanny  ushered 
into  the  dark,  cool  parlor  Deacon  Morse  and  Deacon 
Flint,  come  to  ask  her  why  she  had  not  attended 
church  since  the  middle  of  last  May,  when  she  was  in 
usual  health  and  exercise  of  her  faculties.  Miss  Beu 
lah,  however,  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  She  faced 
the  deacons  sternly,  but  calmly. 

"It  is  so,"  she  said,  when  they  had  finished  their 
accusation.  "I  hain't  ben  to  meetin'  for  good  cause. 
You  can't  say  I've  did  any  thing  that's  give  occasion 
to  the  enemy  more'n  this.  I've  attended  reg'lar  to 
prayer-meetin's  and  sewin'-circle.  I've  give  as  usual  to 
home  missions.  You  can't  say  I've  made  any  scandal, 
or  done  nothin'  out  o'  rule,  save  an'  except  stayin'  at 
home  sabbath  days  ;  and  my  family  has  attended  punc- 
tooally." 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  the  deacons :  they  pressed 
for  a  reason. 

"If  you  would  free  your  mind,  sister  Larkin,  it 
would  be  for  the  good  of  the  church,"  said  Deacon 
Morse. 

"Mabbe   'twouldn't  be   altogether  to   your  likin', 


148  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

deacon,  if  I  did  free  my  mind.  Seems  as  though 
stiiyin'  at  home  from  meetiu'  wa'n't  no  worse'n  sandin' 
sugar  an'  waterin'  rum ;  and  I  never  heerd  you  was 
dealt  with  for  them  things." 

Deacon  Morse  was  dumb,  but  Deacon  Flint  took  up 
the  discourse. 

'*  Well,  sister  Larkin,  we  didn't  know  but  what  you 
was  troubled  in  your  mind." 

44  I  ain't !  "  snapped  Miss  Beulah. 

"  Or  perhaps  was  gettin'  a  mite  doubtful  about  doc 
trines,  or  suthin'." 

"No,  I  ain't.  I  go  by  the  'Sembly's  Catechism, 
and  believe  in  every  word  on't,  questions  and  all." 

u  Well,  you  seem  to  be  a  leetle  contumacious,  sister 
Larkin,  so  to  speak  :  if  you  had  a  good  reason,  why,  of 
course,  you'd  be  willin'  to  tell  it." 

This  little  syllogism  caught  Miss  Beulah. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  I  hain't  got  no  bunnit." 

The  deacons  stared  mutually ;  and  Deacon  Morse, 
forgetful  of  his  defeat,  and  curious,  as  men  naturally 
are,  asked  abruptly,  "  Why  not?  " 

u  Cause  Miss  Blake  sot  on  it." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  blank  amaze 
ment,  and  shook  their  heads.  Here  was  a  pitfall. 
Was  it  proper,  dignified,  possible,  to  investigate  this 
truly  feminine  tangle  ?  They  were  dying  to  enter  into 
particulars,  but  ashamed  to  do  so :  nothing  was  left 
but  retreat.  Miss  Beulah  perceived  the  emergency, 
and  chuckled  grimly.  This  was  the  last  straw.  The 
deacons,  rose  as  one  man,  and  said,  "  Good-day,"  with 
an  accent  of  reprobation,  going  their  ways  in  deep 
doubt  as  to  what  they  should  report  to  the  church, 
which  certainly  would  not  receive  with  proper  gravity 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  149 

the  announcement  that  Miss  Beulah  Larkin  could  not 
come  to  church  because  the  minister's  wife  had  sat  on 
her  Sunday  bonnet.  The  strife  of  tongues,  however, 
did  not  spare  aunt  Beulah,  if  the  deacons  did  ;  and  lor 
a  long  time  Miss  Beers,  who  had  the  key  to  the  situa 
tion,  did  not  hear  any  of  the  gossip,  partly  because 
she  had  been  ill  of  low  fever,  and  then  gone  to  her 
sister's  in  Dartford  for  change  of  air,  and  partly,  that, 
during  July  and  August,  the  sewing-circle  was  tempo 
rarily  suspended.  But  it  renewed  its  sessions  in  Sep 
tember  ;  and  Miss  Beers  was  an  active  member,  sure 
to  be  at  the  first  meeting.  It  was  then  and  there  she 
heard  the  scorn  and  jeers  and  unfounded  stories  come 
on  like  a  tidal  wave  to  overwhelm  her  friend's  char 
acter.  She  listened  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  growing 
more  and  more  indignant.  Then,  for  she  was  a  little 
woman  as  far  as  stature  went,  she  mounted  into  a 
chair,  and  demanded  the  floor  in  her  own  fashion. 

"Look  a-here !  "  said  she,  her  shrill  voice  soaring 
above  the  busy  clapper  of  tongues  below.  "It's  a 
burniu'  shame  to  say  a  hard  word  about  Beulah  Lar 
kin.  She's  as  good  a  woman  as  breathes  the  breath 
of  life,  and  I  know  the  hull  why  and.  wherefore  she 
hain't  ben  to  meetin'.  She  hain't  had  no  bunnit.  I 
made  her  as  tasty  a  bunnit  as  ever  you  see  last  spring  ; 
and  that  jackanapes  of  a  boy  he  chucked  it  under  the 
rocker-cushion  jest  to  plague  her,  and  Miss  Blake  she 
come  in  and  sot  right  down  on  it,  not  knowiu',  of 
course,  that  'twas  there  ;  and,  as  if  that  wa'n't  enough 
to  spile  it ' '  (an  involuntary  titter  seemed  to  express 
the  sense  of  the  audience  that  it  was),  "that  other 
sprig,  she  took  and  upsot  a  pitcher  of  milk  onto  the 
cushion,  and  you'd  better  believe  that  bunnit  was  a 
sight!" 


150  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

u  Why  didn't  she  get  another?"  severely  asked 
Deacon  Morse's  wife. 

"Why?  Why,  becos  she's  a-most  a  saint.  Her 
dividends  some  on  'em  didn't  come  in,  and  she'd  prom 
ised  that  biggest  girl  fifteen  dollars  to  help  her  get  out 
to  her  feller  at  Chicago,  for  Sary  told  me  on't  herself ; 
and  then  she  gives  five  dollars  to  hum  missions  every 
year,  and  she  done  it  this  year  jest  the  same  ;  and  she's 
took  that  widder  and  them  orphans  home  all  summer, 
and  nigh  about  worked  her  head  off  for  'em,  and  never 
charged  a  cent  o'  board ;  and  therefor  and  thereby 
she  hain't  had  no  money  to  buy  no  bunnit,  and  goes 
to  prayer-meetin'  in  her  calico  slat." 

A  rustle  of  wonder  and  respect  went  through  the 
room  as  the  women  moved  uneasily  in  their  chairs, 
exchanged  glances,  and  said,  "My!"  which  inspired 
Miss  Beers  to  go  on. 

"And  here  everybody's  ben  a-talkin'  bad  about  her, 
while  she's  ben  a  real  home-made  kind  of  a  saint.  I 
know  she  don't  look  it ;  but  she  doos  it,  and  that's  a 
sight  better.  I  don't  b'lieve  there's  one  woman  in 
forty  could  ha'  had  the  grit  and  the  perseverance  to  do 
what  she  done-,  and  hold  her  tongue  about  it  too.  I 
know  I  couldn't  for  one." 

"  She  shouldn't  ha'  let  her  good  be  evil  spoken  of," 
said  Mrs.  Morse  with  an  air  of  authority. 

1 '  I  clono  as  anybody  had  oughter  have  spoken  evil 
of  her  good,"  was  Miss  Beers 's  dry  answer ;  and  Mrs. 
Morse  said  no  more. 

But  such  a  warm  and  generous  vindication  touched 
many  a  feminine  heart,  which  could  appreciate  Miss 
Beulah's  self-sacrifice  better  than  the  deacons  could. 
There  was  an  immediate  clustering  and  chattering 


MISS  BEULAH'S  BONNET.  151 

among  the  good  women,  who,  if  they  did  love  a  bit  of 
gossip,  were  none  the  less  kindly  and  well-meaning ; 
and  presently  a  spokeswoman  approached  Miss  Beers 
with  the  proposition,  that,  if  she  would  make  Miss 
Beulah  a  handsome  bonnet,  a  dozen  or  more  had 
volunteered  to  buy  the  materials. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Mary  Jane,  wiping  her  specta 
cles,  "  this  is  real  kind  ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  but  what 
Beulah'd  think  the  same,  though  she's  a  master-hand 
-to  be  independent,  and  some  folks  say  proud.  Mabbe 
she  is  ;  but  I  know  she  couldn't  but  take  it  kind  of 
friends  and  neighbors  to  feel  for  her.  However,  there 
ain't  no  need  on't.  It  seems  that  Sary's  husband  ain't 
very  forehanded,  and  she's  got  a  dreadful  taste  for  the 
millinery  business  :  so  she's  gone  to  work  in  one  of  the 
fust  shops  there,  and  is  gettin'  great  wages,  for  her ; 
and  only  yesterday  there  come  a  box  by  express  for 
Miss  Beulah,  with  the  tastiest  bunnit  in  it  I  ever  see  in 
my  life,  —  good  black  velvet,  with  black  satin  kinder 
puffed  into  the  brim,  and  a  dark-green  wing  to  one  side 
of  the  band,  and  a  big  bow  in  under  a  jet  buckle  be 
hind.  I  tell  you  it  was  everlastin'  pretty.  Sary  she 
sent  a  note  to  say  she  hoped  aunt  Beulah'd  give  her 
the  pleasure  to  accept  it ;  for  she'd  knowed  all  along 
how  that  she  was  the  cause  of  her  goin'  without  a 
bunnit  all  summer  (I  expect  her  ma  had  writ  to  her) , 
and  she  felt  real  bad  about  it.  You'd  better  b'lieve 
Beulah  was  pleased." 

And  Miss  Beulah  was  pleased  again  when  the  women 
from  the  village  began  to  call  on  her  even  more  fre 
quently  than  before,  and  express  cordial  and  friendly 
interest  in  a  way  that  surprised  her,  all  unaware  as  she 
was  of  Miss  Beers 's  enthusiastic  vindication  of  her 


152  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOES. 

character  before  the  sewing-circle.  Yet,  poor,  dear, 
silly  old  woman,  —  only  a  woman,  after  all,  —  nothing 
so  thrilled  and  touched  her  late-awakened  heart  as  little 
Janey's  soft  caresses  and  dimpled  patting  hands  on 
that  sallow  old  face,  when  she  climbed  into  her  lap  the 
next  Sunday,  and,  surveying  Miss  Beulah's  new  bonnet, 
exclaimed,  with  her  silvery  baby  voice,  uPitty,  pitty 
bonnet!" 

Jack  did  not  say  any  thing  about  it,  nor  did  the  con 
gregation,  though  on  more  than  one  female  face  beamed 
a  furtive  congratulatory  smile  ;  and  Deacon  Flint  looked 
at  Deacon  Morse  across  the  aisle. 

If  there  is  any  moral  to  this  story,  as  no  doubt 
there  should  be,  it  lies  in  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Blake 
never  again  sat  down  in  a  chair  without  first  lifting  the 
cushion. 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL. 

"  "Tis  true,  'tis  pity  : 
Pity  'tis  'tis  true." 

"WELL,"  said  Calvary  Culver,  sometimes  called 
Cal,  and  not  infrequently  Cal  Cul,  by  such  as  believed 
in  the  old  adage  that  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit,  — 
"well,  my  mind's  nigh  about  made  up.  Mother's 
kinder  feeble :  it's  time  there  was  more  folks  to  our 
house.  I  guess  I'll  git  married." 

"Haw,  haw,  haw!"  burst  from  the  audience,  —  a 
group  of  waiters  and  loungers  in  the  country  store, 
where  Cal  stood,  with  his  back  against  the  counter, 
whittling  and  spitting. 

"  'Tain't  no  larfin  matter,  boys,"  he  went  on. 
"You  may  think  it's  suthin'  smart  to  git  married,  but 
mebbe  you'll  find  'tain't  all  honey-sugar  pie.  Look  at 
Deacon  Flint,  now !  I  tell  ye  his  wife's  as  afeard  o' 
him  as  Parson  Eobbins  is  of  the  Devil ;  and  you  can't 
say  no  more'n  that,  now  can  ye?  " 

"Oh,  say!"  began  another  lounger:  "you  hain't 
heerd,  hev  ye,  about  the  parson's  last  tussle  with  the 
adversary  ? ' ' 

Nobody  had.     He  was  unanimously  urged  to  go  on. 

"  Well,  you  know  it  hain't  ben  real  fust-rate  sugarin' 
weather :  it  ha' n't  thew  days,  though  it's  friz  cousid- 
er'ble  night-times.  But  it's  kinder  late  for  tappin', 

153 


154  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

anyway,  'cordin'  to  the  year :  so  parson  he  reckoned 
he'd  be  amazin'  forehanded  this  year,  and  git  his  holes 
bored,  and  spouts  drove  in,  and  buckets  set,  so's  to  be 
on  hand,  ye  see.  Now,  them  trees  never  dripped  a 
drop  a  Thursday,  nor  a  Friday,  nor  a  Saturday :  three 
days  the  buckets  hung  right  there,  and  was  empty  ;  but 
sabba'-day  it  come  round  real  warm,  the  sun  shone 
powerful,  and,  when  he  went  to  the  bush  Monday 
mornin',  the  sap  troughs  and  buckets  was  brimmin'  over 
full,  as  sure  as  you're  born !  What  does  parson  do 
but  take  and  tip  'em  all  up  ;  and  Jim  Beebe  —  he  was 
behind  him,  'cause  his  bush  is  over  the  fence,  and  he 
knowed  sap  had  run  by  that  time  —  Jim  heerd  him  say, 
4 1  know  thy  works,  Satan,  tempting  me  with  Lord's 
Day  sap.  Get  thee  behind  me ! '  And  he  up  and 
tipped  over  every  drop  outer  the  ground,  and  went 
off." 

"  Jeerus'lem  !  "  "  Don't  he  beat !  "  "  Gosh  !  " 
' '  Darnation  ! ' '  and  one  rustic  expletive  after  another 
chorussed  this  tale. 

Cal  Culver  kept  silence,  shifting  from  one  foot  to 
the  other ;  then  he  spoke  meditatively,  as  if  he  had 
considered  the  subject  before.  "  Parson  Robbins  does 
take  consider'ble  comfort  out  o'  the  Devil,  don't  he?  " 

"  Comfort !  "  echoed  the  crowd. 

"Well,  mebbe  you  wouldn't  call  it  that  exackly ; 
but  the  idee  is,  he  gits  somethin'  to  spend  his  grit  on 
that  way  that's  orthydox.  You  see,  natur's  awful 
strong  in  Parson  Robbins,  and  by  natur'  he'd  orter  ha' 
ben  a  fightin'  man  :  he's  got  it  in  him.  I've  seen  him 
when  I  knowed  he  nigh  about  ached  to  pitch  in  and 
knock  a  feller  down.  He'd  ha'  fit  Injuns  like  all  pos 
sessed,  ef  they'd  ben  around  sence  he  growed  up.  Now 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      155 

what's  in  a  man,  'cordin'  to  my  belief,  's  got  to  come 
out  o'  him  some  way  or  nuther.  Ef  he's  a  good  man, 
I  s'pose  it's  kinder  made  over,  sanctified  like,  ef  it's 
grit,  or  lyin',  or  brag,  or  any  sech  thing." 

"Kinder  difficult  to  sanctify  lyin',"  dryly  remarked 
Mr.  Battle,  the  village  store-keeper. 

"Well,  'tis,  that's  a  fact;  but  I  s'pose  ef  it  was 
b'iled  over  into  'cuteness,  and  sarcumventions  of  the 
Evil  One,  and  sech,  'twouldn't  do  no  great  o'  harm? 
Might  come  in  useful  in  waterin'  rum,  and  sandin* 
sugar. ' ' 

Mr.  Battle  heard  a  noise  at  the  back-door  just  then  : 
and  Cal  winked  deliberately  at  the  crowd,  who  wanted 
to  grin,  but  dare  not ;  for  most  of  them  were  chalked 
up  on  that  dreadful  slate  behind  the  door  with  many 
marks,  and  all  of  them  liked  rum,  with  or  without 
water. 

"Parson  doos  pay  quite  a  sight  of  'tention  to  the 
Devil,"  sighed  and  squeaked  a  bent  old  man, — bent 
and  worn  with  rheumatism,  that  rack  and  thumb-screw 
of  the  New-England  climate.  "  'Pears  to  me  some 
times  as  though  he  talked  a  sight  more  'bout  him  than 
'bout  the  Lord  above." 

"  I  expect  he  has  to,"  answered  Cal  Culver.  "  He's 
round  here  in  Bassett  a  good  deal  the  most  o'  the  two." 

4 '  You  look  out ! ' '  called  the  speaker  who  had  told 
about  the  sap-troughs  :  "you'll  git  ketched  up  yet,  as 
Mat  Lines  did  t'other  day.  He  said  the  south  eend  o' 
Bassett  was  as  bad  as  hell ;  and  I'm  blamed  if  they 
didn't  take  him  up  for't,  and  fine  him." 

"  'Twon't  do  to  tell  the  truth  allers,"  replied  Culver. 
"  But,  boys,  to  go  back  to  fust  principles,  I  be  ser'ous- 
ly  a  mind  to  git  married." 


156 


"  Who  ye  goin'  to  mary,  Cal?  "  inquired  Mr.  Battle. 

"  Well,  I  dono  as  I  know  myself,  —  some  smart  likely 
gal." 

Here  was  a  general  shout,  for  Cal  Culver  was  the 
village  do-nothing.  The  owner  of  a  small  red  house 
and  "home  lot,"  which  his  father  had  left  him,  the 
sole  proceeds  of  a  long  life  spent  at  a  cobbler's  bench, 
Cal  acted  as  if  work  were  as  needless  to  his  life  as  it 
was  unpleasant ;  that  is,  hard  work.  He  managed  to 
raise  enough  potatoes  and  Indian  corn  on  the  two 
acres  to  keep  his  mother  and  himself  in  meal  and  the 
great  vegetable  staple.  If  he  felt  like  it  in  the  time  of 
it,  he  raised  bush-beans  along  by  the  fence ;  and  in 
among  the  corn  it  was  easy  to  drop  a  few  pumpkin- 
seeds.  The  apple-trees  in  the  door-yard  produced  their 
crops  without  trouble,  and  "  garden-sass  "  was  left  to 
his  mother's  care :  if  she  wanted  it,  she  could  raise  it. 
Poor  old  woman !  she  had  enough  to  do  with  loom, 
spinning-wheel,  and  needle,  besides  the  simple  house 
wifery  of  her  time  and  means  ;  so  that  the  garden  only 
bloomed  with  such  flowers  as  were  hardy  and  perennial, 
—  deep-red  roses  and  glowing  white  ones  ;  hollyhocks 
in  stately  spires  ;  stiff  sweet-williams,  and  ragged  beds 
of  moss-pink ;  little  Burgundy  roses  no  bigger  than  a 
copper  cent,  and  trim  as  an  old  maid  ;  and  long  wreaths 
of  cinnamon  roses,  sweet  as  the  luxuriant  blooms  of 
far-away  Cashmere,  but  stinted  in  leaf  and  growth  and 
blossom,  as  if  they  pined  and  half  died  in  bitter  North 
ern  airs  and  grudging  sunshine.  There  was  sage  too, 
and  summer-savory  ;  for  there  was  a  pig  always.  The 
labor  of  feeding  it  bore  hard  on  Cal ;  but  who  could 
live  without  pork?  —  pork  that  meant  pies,  doughnuts, 
suet-pudding,  sausages  in  winter  ;  cheeks  smoked  under 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      157 

a  barrel,  and  hung  in  the  shed ;  slabs  of  fat,  salt  and 
unctuous,  adding  savor  and  strength  to  a  b'iled  dinner 
or  a  "  fry  "  of  any  sort.  No,  indeed  !  a  pig  was  the 
great  necessity  of  life,  and  must  be  fed  if  they  two 
went  hungry. 

But  Cal  was  a  mighty  hunter,  so  that  food  was  seldom 
wanting.  He  could  snare  partridges,  kill  woodcock  and 
quail  with  his  old  shot-gun,  bring  home  squirrels  by 
the  dozen,  and  set  rabbit-traps  with  unfailing  success  ; 
trout  leaped  to  his  hook  ;  and,  as  to  perch  and  sunfish, 
they  were  to  be  had  for  the  asking  at  his  hands,  and 
the  ponds  in  winter  were  full  of  pickerel :  more  than 
he  and  Granny  Culver,  could  use  found  their  way  to  the 
store  or  the  squire's,  and  resulted  in  rum,  tea,  or  maple- 
sugar,  —  luxuries  of  life.  Yet  Cal  was  a  shiftless, 
thriftless  fellow ;  shrewd,  witty,  keen-sighted,  and  — 
lazy.  He  loved  to  roam  over  the  land  with  rod  or  gun, 
to  lie  on  the  fragrant  sand  of  a  pine-wood  and  sleep 
away  sultry  noons,  to  hang  about  the  big  stove  in  the 
store  in  cold  weather  and  take  a  hot  "nip"  of  rum 
toddy,  while  he  told  and  heard  stories  and  cracked 
jokes  ;  but  how  he  hated  to  plough,  to  hoe,  to  chop,  to 
break  stone,  to  mow,  to  tend  mill !  Parson  Bobbins 
and  he  were  always  at  odds,  and  no  wonder.  The 
parson  was  a  fiery,  positive,  set,  energetic  little  man, 
with  enough  executive  power  in  him  to  have  been  presi 
dent  of  six  railroads  at  a  time,  —  a  man  who  could  not 
be  idle  a  moment,  who  rose  early  and  read  late,  who 
was  by  nature  a  belligerent,  autocratic,  eager,  earnest 
man,  and  was  set  down  in  a  little  country  parish.  Cal 
was  right :  to  fight  something  was  the  necessity  of  the 
parson's  nature  ;  his  very  face  was  aggressive.  Modern 
clergymen,  who  preach  one  sermon  a  week,  are  victims 


158  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

to  dyspepsia,  and  use  long  words  by  the  thousand  to 
express  what  they  don't  mean  ;  who  dabble  in  aesthetics 
and  affinities,  and  have  spiritual  ups  and  downs  like 
the  cradle-holes  in  a  winter-drifted  road,  because  they 
have  so  little  work  that  they  have  time  to  waste  in 
studying  themselves  and  their  feelings, — would  have 
made  Parson  Robbins  stare.  Three  sermons  a  Sunday, 
and  a  lecture  Thursday  evening ;  prayer-meetings  in 
the  ends  of  the  town  alternately  twice  a  week  ;  visiting 
such  of  his  flock  as  needed  it,  and  all  of  them  occa 
sionally,  and  writing  sermons  every  week  with  con 
scientious  diligence  ;  splitting  wood,  hoeing  corn,  and, 
in  short,  farming  his  few  acres  by  way  of  amusement 
and  relaxation ;  his  only  reading  the  county  weekly 
paper,  and  the  few  solid  volumes  of  theology  on  his 
bedroom  shelves,  —  what  a  life  is  this  in  comparison 
with  that  of  to-day  ?  Five  hundred  dollars  a  year  were 
well  earned,  and  hard  earned  too.  No  wonder  that  the 
gospel  was  a  daily  reality  to  this  prophet  in  the  wilder 
ness,  and  the  Devil  a  real  and  roaring  personage,  to  be 
baffled,  fought,  defied,  and  exorcised :  and  no  wonder 
that  learning  to  endure  hardness  as  a  good  soldier  of 
Christ  Jesus,  and  to  put  on  the  whole  armor  of  God, 
this  militant  parson  longed  to  test  that  hardness,  and  use 
those  weapons  in  lawful  warfare  with  the  enemy  ;  and  he 
did.  He  did  not  forget  God,  but  he  could  trust  him. 
The  Devil  was  persistent  and  at  hand  ;  and  he  preached 
about,  prayed  at,  and  wrestled  with  him  to  an  extent 
incredible  to  us  who  talk  about  an  impersonal  principle 
of  evil,  and  consider  that  awful  solitude  in  the  wilder 
ness  and  its  agonies  only  a  dramatization. 

To  Parson  Robbins,  as  to  Luther,  the  Enemy  was  a 
real  and  active  being  ;  and  the  flock  whom  he  gathered 


CAL   CULVER   AND   THE   DEVIL.  159 

into  the  old  red  meeting-house  accepted  his  belief  with 
equal  earnestness,  except  a  few  born  sceptics  who 
could  not  believe  in  any  thing,  and  a  few  sturdy  sin 
ners  who  would  not. 

Even  Cal  Culver  believed  in  the  Devil ;  but  he  was 
too  lazy  to  repent  of  his  sins  and  lead  a  new  life,  —  far 
too  lazy  to  begin  a  warfare  that  must  last  as  long  as 
he  did,  and  keep  mind  and  body  on  the  alert.  To-day 
he  was  not  so  much  troubled  about  Satan  as  he  had 
been  sometimes.  His  mind  was  given  to  another  sub 
ject,  —  whom  he  should  marry  ;  for  marriage  was  get 
ting  to  be  the  only  way  out  of  his  difficulties.  His 
mother  grew  feebler  and  feebler  ;  and  he  contemplated 
with  terror  the  idea  that  he  must  do  the  work  himself, 
and  take  care  of  her  too,  unless  somebody  stepped  in 
to  take  the  burden  off  his  shoulders.  He  had  an 
nounced  his  intention  in  the  store,  partly  to  fix  it  in  his 
own  mind  beyond  recall,  partly  in  the  hope  of  some 
gratuitous  advice  being  offered  ;  but  nobody  there  had 
any  to  give.  It  did  not  occur  to  any  of  them  that 
Cal  was  in  earnest,  or,  if  he  was,  that  any  girl  in 
Bassett  would  look  at  him  in  a  matrimonial  light.  But 
this  was  not  Cal's  opinion.  He  knew  he  was  hand 
some.  The  straight,  regular  features,  big  blue  eyes, 
and  golden  hair  and  beard  he  had  seen  mirrored  in 
many  a  silent  forest  pool,  told  him  a  true  story ;  and 
when  a  hearty  laugh  parted  the  full  red  lips,  and 
showed  his  regular  white  teeth,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
with  fun,  or  glittered  with  humor  or  craft,  the  too 
perfect  face  wore  an  added  charm  of  bright  expression. 
He  was  tall,  too,  straight,  and  strong,  and  being  the 
only  man  in  all  the  village,  old  or  young  ;  whose  beard 
had  been  allowed  its  natural  growth,  simply  because 


160  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

he  was  too  lazy  to  shave,  he  was  a  marked  figure 
wherever  he  went,  and  in  constant  request  at  raisings, 
apple-bees,  and  huskings,  both  as  help  in  the  work, 
which  being  only  occasional,  and  followed  by  a  feast, 
was  not  objectionable  to  him,  and  also  as  "fust-rate 
company,"  —  a  guest  who  could  play  all  sorts  of  games, 
and  dance  all  night,  where  any  householder  dared 
admit  of  dancing.  But,  though  the  girls  all  liked  his 
society,  none  of  them  wanted  to  marry  him  ;  and  to 
day,  after  he  had  waited  for  some  expression  of  assent 
or  opinion  from  the  knot  of  his  comrades  in  the  store, 
and  waited  in  vain,  he  sauntered  off  to  find  his  special 
crony,  Jim  Beebe,  and  get  him  to  go  fishing.  An  hour 
or  two  after,  they  were  both  embarked  in  a  dug-out  on 
Long  Lake,  diligently  waiting  for  something  to  bite, 
and  Cal  began  discourse  in  a  low  tone,  out  of  consid 
eration  for  the  fishes. 

"  Say,  Jim,  I'm  a-goin'  to  git  married." 

"Be  ye?  "  Jim  answered  meditatively,  giving  a  gen 
tle  motion  to  his  rod  to  see  if  the  line  was  free. 

"  Yes,  I  be  ;  but,  darn  it  all !  I  dono  who  I'll  marry 
yet,  and  I've  got  to  hurry  up.  Mother's  dreadful  mis 
er 'ble  along  back." 

"Kinder  sure  somebody'll  hev  ye,  'pears  to  me," 
sarcastically  remarked  Jim. 

"  Well,  what  ef  I  be?  Gals  is  most  gener'ly  ready 
to  say  snip  when  a  good-lookin'  young  feller  says 
snap.  I'll  bet  ye  a  cooky  the  fust  .gal  I  ask  says  yes 
right  off." 

Jim  was  disgusted  with  this  conceit :  he  entertained 
no  doubt  that  any  girl  in  Bassett  would  marry  him,  but 
Cal  Culver  was  another  sort  of  person.  Men  have  not 
radically  changed  within  the  last  hundred  years,  and 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      161 

both  Calvary  and  Jim  might  find  comrades  to-day. 
However,  Jim  held  his  tongue,  and  Cal  went  on,  — 

"  Trouble  is  to  find  jest  the  right  one.  There's  lots 
o'  folks  in  the  world ;  but,  come  to  marryin',  you  want 
jest  the  right  critter.  It's  a  life  bizness,  you  see  ;  and 
what  on  airth  kin  a  man  do  ef  he  gets  haltered  up  tight 
to  the  wrong  un?" 

Cal  was  not  "  of  the  fashion  of  these  times  ;  "  for  as 
yet  divorce  facilities  were  unknown  to  decent  Con 
necticut,  and  "till  death"  did  not  mean  the  "dying 
daily  "  it  seems  to  now. 

"What  sort  o'  head-marks  be  you  sot  on  speci- 
fyin'  ?  "  dryly  remarked  Jim,  as  he  gave  a  little  twitch 
to  his  rod,  and  landed  a  round,  fat  little  "  punkin- 
seed  "  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"  Well,  I  want  a  smart  un,  — that,  or  nothin'." 

"  I  knowed  that  afore  ye  told  me:  there's  got  to  be 
smartness  some'eres,"  curtly  put  in  Jim,  pushing  an 
unhappy  worm  on  to  the  end  of  his  hook. 

"  Git  out !  "  laughed  Cal.  "  You  shouldn't  twit  on 
fac's,  Jim.  I'm  smart  enough  when  I'm  a  mind  ter, 
but  I'd  jest  as  lieves  other  folks  would  take  a  stiddy 
job  on't.  I  want  a  strong,  healthy  gal  too.  Mother 
she  can't  do  a  heap  more:  she's  failin',  that's  the 
truth  on't.  Somebody's  got  to  step  round  lively  to  our 
house  while  she  lasts.  I  want  somebody  that's  got 
faculty  too :  fact  is,  a  woman  that  hain't  got  faculty 
ain't  good  for  nothin'." 

"Mebbe  ye  might  try  for  Polly thi  Bangs,"  put  in 
Jim,  who  was  getting  interested  in  the  matter  at  last. 

"Well,  I  declare  for't,  I  hadn't  had  a  thought  o' 
Pollythi  Bangs.  She  is  a  masterpiece  for  smartness, 
now,  ain't  she?" 


.  > 


162  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 


"Steel  traps   ain't  nothin'  to  her,"  assented  Jim: 

she's  too  smart  a' most.  But  she's  got  amazin' 
faculty,  everybody  says.  I  dono,  though,  as  I  should 
reelly  hanker  to  marry  her,  Cal:  them  Bangses  is  a 
dreadful  queer  lot." 

"Well,  I  don't  calkerlate  to  marry  the  hull  on  'em, 
Jim.  I  guess  I  could  hold  my  own  with  Polly,  ef  she 
is  reel  masterful.  Come  to  that,  I've  the  biggest 
bones  anyway.  I  can  shake  her  up  good." 

Jim  shook  his  head.  He  did  not  feel  sure  that 
physical  force  could  put  down  Polly thi  Bangs,  and 
proceeded,  as  delicately  as  he  knew  how,  to  urge  this 
question. 

"  Well,  I  guess  ye  could,  ef  it  come  to  that.  But, 
Lord,  how  be  ye  goin'  to  stop  her  tongue?  She'll  talk 
ye  lame  and  blind,  ef  ye  stroke  her  the  wrong  way  ;  and 
she'll  hetchel  the  old  woman  mortally,  I  be  afraid." 

"Queer,  ain't  it?"  Cal  said,  dropping  his  hook 
slowly  into  the  water,  having  mated  Jim's  pumpkin- 
seed  while  he  talked,  —  "queer  how  women-folks  do 
ketch  fire,  come  to  git  'em  together.  The  best  on  'em 
can't  live  in  the  same  house  two  days  'thout  some 
darned  thing  or  'nother  sprouts  up  to  set  'em  by  the 
ears.  It  doos  beat  all." 

"  I  expect  Parson  Robbins  would  say  the  Devil  comes 
in  thirdsman,  Cal,  them  times." 

"  I  guess  there  ain't  no  special  call  for  an  extry 
Devil.  'Riginal  sin's  actyve  enough  in  'em  most  times  ; 
but  they're  reel  handy  to  hev  around,  for  all  that.  I 
shall  begin  square  and  fair.  Ef  she  wants  to  hetchel 
me,  she  kin  try  it  on  ;  but  she'd  better  let  the  old 
woman  alone.  'Twon't  be  for  long  anyway." 

"  Don't  you  reckon  on  that,"  put  in  the  experienced 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      163 

Jim.  "  Old  women  last  for  ever  'n'  ever.  They  don't 
know  how  to  die  when  they  git  started.  Lordy  !  look 
at  granny.  She's  ben  prayed  for  more  times  in  meet- 
in'.  She's  ben  dangerous  forty  times  since  I  kin 
remember  :  but  she  hops  up  every  time  like  a  pa'tridge 
trap ;  and  she's  ninety,  come  July,  as  sure  as  you're 
born." 

"Well,  what  do  ye  keep  heviu'  her  prayed  for?" 
coolly  suggested  Cal ;  an  idea  that  tickled  Jim  till  he 
dropped  his  rod  over  the  side,  worn  out  with  suppressed 
laughter,  —  suppressed,  for  fear  of  startling  the  perch 
and  pumpkin-seeds,  which  were  now  tempting  their 
fate  with  commendable  alacrity. 

"  Cal  Culver,  you  do  beat  all !  "  he  found  breath  to 
gasp  at  length. r  "  Why,  ef  I  didn't  hand  in  no  paper, 
Parson  Rabbins  ud  pray  for  her  whether  or  no :  so  I 
might  jest  as  well  be  kinder  decent.  But,  ef  you  do 
go  in  for  Pollythi  Bangs,  why,  you  ain't  noways  blind 
ed.  I  expect  you  know  her,  root  and  branch." 

"  Jee-rusalem !  I  guess  I  do!  Ain't  her  Tolks  gin 
the  name  to  Squabble  Hill?  Their  house  is  jest  like 
a  flock  o'  blackbirds, — foreveiiastin'  a-cacklin'  an' 
jawin'  an'  takiu'  to  do :  you  can  hear  'em  nigh  onto 
quarter  of  a  mile  when  you're  a-goin'  along  the  turn 
pike.  But  mother's  everlastin'  hard  o'  hearin'  :  that's 
a  comfort,  seein'  things  is  as  they  is." 

"  I  didn't  know  as  they  was  yit,"  suggested  Jim. 

,."  Well,  I  guess  there  ain't  no  great  doubt  but  what, 
ef  I  make  up  my  mind,  she'll  make  up  her'n  pretty 
much  arter  the  same  pattern.  Polly  hain't  had  no  great 
luck  with  company-keepin',  and  she  ain't  no  chicken 
nuther.  I'll  fetch  round  there  next  sabba'-clay  night, 
I  guess,  and  kinder  let  fall  a  hint.  I  didn't  want  to 
rile  her  by  bein'  too  suddin." 


164  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"I  wouldn't,"  said  Jim.  "But  look  a-here,  CW; 
there's  suthin'  else  to't.  I  forgot  for  to  tell  ye,  for  I 
only  heerd  it  yesterday.  She's  hed  a  aunt,  or  suthm', 
die  over  to  Har'ford,  that's  left  her  a  couple  o'  housen 
there  wuth  quite  a  smn,  —  two  or  three  thousan' ,  I 
expect." 

"Do  tell!  Now,  Jim,  that  kinder  clinches  me. 
I'm  bound  for  Pollythi,  sure,  now.  Means  is  a  help, 
that's  a  fact.  I'd  made  up  my  mind  pretty  well 
afore  :  now  I'm  sartin." 

All  this  time  Pollythi  Bangs  was  flying  about  the 
house  at  home,  doing  her  annual  spring-cleaning. 
Dreadful  stage  of  human  experience  !  Civilization  has 
never  softened  its  horrors,  but  rather  added  thereto. 
It  is  the  crucial  test  before  which  all  the  amenities  of 
life,  its  conveniences,  its  comforts,  its  elegancies,  go 
down  helplessly  into  the  valley  of  humiliation.  Furni 
ture,  bric-a-brac,  carpets,  paintings,  china,  only  exas 
perate  this  insatiable  epidemic,  and  give  it  more  and 
more  victims,  till  their  number  is  legion.  If  Polly 
Bangs  was  cross  over  the  lustration  of  a  house  with 
one  carpet,  two  cracked  looking-glasses,  no  sofa,  blue- 
and- white  crockery,  and  pewter  platters,  —  a  house 
where  soap  and  water  could  be  slopped  about  with 
absolute  freedom,  and  the  whitewash-brush  smeared 
liberally  everywhere,  —  what  would  she  have  been, 
turned  loose  among  Sevres,  Dresden,  Crown  Derby, 
French  porcelain,  Japanese  enamel,  Bohemian  glass, 
Venetian  crystal ;  carpets  of  Persia,  India,  France, 
and  England ;  furniture  carved  and  upholstered  as  if 
for  palaces  ;  priceless  pictures  ;  paper  of  Eastlake  and 
Morris  ;  and  the  ten  thousand  costly  dusty  bawbles  of 
a  modern  mansion?  Let  lunatic- asylums  answer.  If 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      165 

we  have  gained  much  in  these  latter  days,  how  much 
have  we  not  lost  ? 

J> 

Polly  was  cross  naturally :  her  mother  was  cross ; 
her  father  fairly  growled.  The  Bangs  temper  was 
proverbial  in  Bassett,  and  now  it  was  in  active  exer 
cise  ;  for  house-cleaning  would  test  an  angel's  amia 
bility,  and  tries  that  of  common  mortals  to  the 
extremest  limit,  even  unto  utter  failure  :  why  should  a 
bad  temper  fail  to  find  it  exasperating?  But  how 
much  more  furious  would  Polly thi  have  been,  had  she 
known  of  that  discussion  as  to  her  future  which  was 
being  held  on  the  fair  breast  of  Long  Lake,  while  the 
budding  trees  shed  soft  shadows  into  the  water,  white 
clouds  gently  sailed  along  its  depths,  the  fragrant 
reluctant  breath  of  a  New-England  spring  sighed 
tenderly  over  wave  and  shore,  and  Cal  and  Jim  slaugh 
tered  little  fishes  with  relentless  hook  and  line  as  they 
discussed^a  deeper  angling  with  a  livelier  bait.  Would 
she  ever  have  risen  to  their  hook  ?  Never !  But  no 
officious  telephone  betrayed  them :  time  and  space 
kept  the  secret  with  their  ancient  honesty.  They  are 
demoralized  now  ;  and  that  which  is  spoken  in  the  bed 
chamber  is  declared  on  the  house-top, — even  on  the 
house-top  miles  away.  Who  shall  ever  know  safety  of 
speech  again? 

Pollythi  Bangs  was  all  that  Jim  Beebe  had  painted 
her,  and  perhaps  more,  —  strong  of  body  and  will  both, 
imperious,  quick-tempered,  and  absolutely  unrestrained 
in  speech.  She  inherited  all  these  traits  from  a  father 
and  mother  so  alike  in  character  that  they  never  were 
at  peace  with  each  other  or  their  child.  Peace,  indeed, 
was  a  state  unknown  in  the  Bangs  family ;  and  so 
notorious  were  their  quarrels,  so  continuous  their  wars 


166  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

and  fightings,  that  the  hill  halfway  up  which  their  old 
farm-house  stood  was  known  all  through  Bassington 
township  as  Squabble  Hill,  —  a  name  borne  by  it  to 
day.  But,  if  Polly  Bangs  was  a  scold,  she  was  also 
smart,  a  great  worker,  and  a  woman  who  could  turn 
her  hand  to  any  thing.  She  could  weave  any  sort  of 
fabric  known  to  domestic  looms  in  those  days ;  she 
could  out-spin  any  other  woman  in  the  town,  having 
once,  in  a  contest  of  wheels,  spun  seven  run  of  yarn 
between  sunrise  and  sunset,  —  an  achievement  that 
would  have  half-killed  any  other  woman  (two  run  being 
counted  a  legitimate  day's  work),  but  which  seemed  to 
have  no  effect  on  Polly thi's  strength  of  nerve  and 
muscle.  Her  bread  was  town-talk  ;  her  quilts  elaborate 
beyond  every  thing,  the  seven-stars  pattern  and  the 
sun-rising-over-the-Alleghany-Mountains  pattern  hav 
ing  originated  in  her  own  accomplished  brain.  As  for 
knitting,  and  yeast,  fine  darning,  election-cake,  train 
ing-day  gingerbread,  and  pot-pie,  she  was  simply 
wonderful.  Her  root-beer  always  foamed,*  her  nut- 
cakes  fried  just  right,  and  her  pork  and  beans  were 
inimitable.  These  things  never  are  the  forte  of  amia 
ble,  gentle,  "pretty-behaved"  women.  Energy,  force, 
Sturm  und  Drang,  make  the  world  go  round,  not  soft 
strokes :  they  have  their  own  power,  but  it  is  not  the 
power  of  leverage.  Yet  Polly  had  a  certain  rough 
kindliness  about  her  when  every  thing  went  right. 

"Narcissa's  nature,  tolerably  mild, 
To  make  a  wash  would  hardly  stew  a  child." 

She  did  not  like  children  or  animals  ;  but  she  would 
fish  a  screaming  infant  out  of  the  brook  if  need  'were, 
and  had  been  known  not  to  kick  a  lame  dog  that  lay 


CAL   CULVER   AND   THE   DEVIL.  167 

down  011  the  door-step.  It  was  wonderful  to  her 
mother  that  Polly  had  no  lovers.  People  who  live 
together  get  used  sometimes  to  each  other's  faults.  A 
husband  will  ignore  a  great  deal  in  a  wife,  because  he 
does  not  notice  her  short-comings  as  others  do  who  do 
not  come  under  their  disturbance  daily ;  and  a  mother 
will  love  and  admire  the  spoiled  child  who  is  a  nuisance 
to  everybody  else  about  her.  Polly  was  handsome, 
after  a  fashion :  she  had  hard  black  eyes,  strong  curl 
ing  dark  hair,  red  cheeks,  strong  white  teeth,  and  a 
good  tall  figure,  angular  and  awkward  to  be  sure.  But 
roundness,  grace,  dimples,  are  not  the  rule  in  New 
England ;  and  Polly  was  better-looking  than  most  of 
her  compeers  :  yet  she  had  attained  the  respectable  age 
of  thirty-five,  without  an  offer,  even  from  a  widower, 
when  Cal  Culver  took  heart  of  grace,  and  asked  her  to 
marry  him,  after  a  three-weeks'  courtship,  following 
directly  on  his  consultation  with  Jim  Beebe. 

Pollythi  neither  said  yes  nor  no  on  that  interesting 
occasion,  nor  did  she  go  through  the  ordinary  formulas 
of  speech  or  action :  she  blushed  not,  neither  sighed, 
nor  drooped  her  head  on  Cal's  shoulder.  She  was  too 
far  off  for  such  tender  demonstration,  if  she  had  in 
tended  it :  so  she  sat  bolt-upright  in  her  chair,  and 
answered  audibly,  "  I'll  think  on't." 

"Well,  I  wisht  you  would,"  manfully  responded 
Cal. 

He  knew  and  she  knew,  and  she  knew  he  knew  she 
knew  (bless  the  English  language ! )  that  there  was  no 
particular  love  in  the  matter.  Cal  wanted  a  capable 
wife ;  and  Pollythi,  being  a  woman,  fully  understood 
that  it  is  more  creditable  to  an  individual  of  the  weaker 
sex  to  be  anybody's  wife  than  nobody's.  She  knew 


168  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

very  well  that  Calvary  Culver  was  a  shiftless,  lazy, 
penniless  fellow,  who  wanted  her  to  help  him  :  hand 
some,  to  be  sure  ;  but,  if  Polly's  heart  warmed  the 
least  to  his  goodly  presence,  her  head  was  cool  enough 
to  chill  such  absurd  flames  immediately.  Yet  even 
that  very  ' '  level ' '  head  gave  a  casting  vote  in  favor  of 
Cal.  If  she  married  him,  she  would  have  her  own 
house  and  her  own  way  ;  for  she  justly  reckoned  Mrs. 
Culver  as  a  cipher  in  the  family.  At  home  her  mother 
and  her  father  both  u  drank  delight  of  battle"  with 
her,  and  not  infrequently  got  the  victory,  when  they 
were  astute  enough  to  join  forces  against  her.  But 
with  Cal  she  could  hold  her  own,  and  take  on  her  the 
state  and  privileges  of  a  matron ;  while  now  she  was 
fast  sinking  into  that  purgatory  of  women,  —  old 
maidenhood.  So  she  "  thought  on't,"  as  she  promised, 
and  thought  favorably ;  and  in  due  time  brisk  little 
Parson  Bobbins  published  the  banns  of  marriage  be 
tween  "Calvary  Culver  of  this  place,  and  Pollythi 
Bangs  of  Squabble  Hill,"  greatly  to  the  edification,  if 
not  the  amusement,  of  his  congregation.  Some  smiled, 
and  some  shook  their  heads ;  but  the  parson  looked 
like  a  small  thunder- cloud,  and,  before  the  day  was 
over,  effectually  turned  the  thoughts  of  his  flock  from 
Cal  and  Polly  in  this  wise  :  — 

It  seems  Jim  Beebe  had  laid  a  bet  with  Squire  Battle 
that  Parson  Robbins  couldn't  preach  a  sermon  without 
mentioning  the  Devil  —  literally  his  bete  noire  —  at 
least  a  dozen  times,  and  agreed  with  him  that  they  both 
should  keep  count  the  next  Sunday,  and  so  settle  this 
peculiar  wager.  Jim  accordingly  went  to  meeting 
armed  with  a  paper  of  big  pins,  and  at  each  mention 
of  the  Devil  made  by  the  parson  stuck  one  of  them 


CAL  CULVER   AND   THE  DEVIL.  169 

upright  in  the  front-edge  of  the  gallery  where  he  sat. 
A  fine  row  they  made  before  that  day  was  over,  — 
thirteen  for  the  morning  sermon,  fifteen  for  the  after 
noon's  discourse,  and  positively  twenty  iii  the  evening. 

Jim  won  his  bet,  and  triumphed.  Brief  exultation. 
The  parson's  keen  eye  had  noticed  his  fixed  attention, 
and  a  peering  ray  of  sunshine  had  twinkled  on  the  new 
pins.  Parson  Robbins  was  pleased.  He  was  a  man, 
after  all,  of  mortal  flesh  and  blood ;  and  to  have 
arrested  the  attention  of  such  an  incorrigible  idler  and 
"  chuckle-head"  as  he  had  more  than  once  stigmatized 
Jim  Beebe,  did  the  natural  man  a  deal  of  good,  and 
imparted  power  and  fervency  to  his  address.  He  could 
not  quite  explain  the  pins,  but  tried  hard  to  believe 
Jim  was  so  absorbed  in  the  discourse  he  did  not  know 
what  he  was  about.  Even  so  have  I  known  a  modern 
minister  speak  with  pathetic  gratification  of  the  effect 
"  a  few  simple  words  "  of  his  from  the  pulpit  had 
upon  a  certain  volatile  young  lady  accidentally  present, 
whom  he  fondly  supposed  to  be  sobbing  with  emotion, 
and  who,  alas !  as  I  had  the  best  reason  to  know,  was 
merely  struggling,  with  hidden  face  and  abased  head, 
to  conquer  a  fit  of  mighty  laughter,  brought  about  by 
the  machinations  of  a  wicked  companion.  But  Parson 
Bobbins  was  more  unlucky  than  the  blessed  man  who 
gave  me  credit  for  my  false-faced  emotion  ;  for,  going 
home  a  little  more  upright  and  confident  than  ever,  he 
heard  a  loud  cackle  of  laughter  from  the  steps  of 
brother  Battle's  side-door,  which  was  screened  from 
the  street  by  some  shrubby  lilacs,  and  Jim  Beebe's 
voice  uplifted  with,  — 

"I  stuck  one  in  every  time,  squire;  and  you  see 
your  tally  and  mine  is  as  like  as  peas  in  a  pod.  Forty* 


170 


eight  'Devils'  in  them  'ere  three  discourses;  'bout  as 
bad  as  the  herd  o'  swine.  Haw,  haw,  haw !  He 
does  beat  all  for  givin'  it  to  th'  Enemy,  now  don't  he? 
But  I  got  my  bet." 

"  That's  so,"  owned  Squire  Battle,  re-echoing  Jim's 
irresistible  chuckle. 

Parson  Robbins  walked  on  in  a  state  of  mind  quite 
changed  from  the  high  content  he  had  enjoyed  before. 
He  was,  in  fact,  furiously  angry,  and,  thinking  he  did 
well  to  be  so,  devoted  himself  to  preparing  in  this  week 
three  new  sermons  entirely  free  from  any  allusions  to 
the  foul  fiend,  or  his  work  and  ways.  It  was  a  hard 
piece  of  writing  to  do  this,  —  hard  as  to  stand  with 
level  guns  before  the  face  of  a  hostile  army,  and  not 
pull  a  trigger  ;  but  yet  it  taught  the  parson  one  lesson 
unconsciously.  He  learned  more  of  the  goodness  of 
God  in  the  course  of  those  three  sermons  than  in  many 
a  long  year  before,  though  the  knowledge  did  not 
immediately  bear  fruit,  for  it  fell  among  the  thorns  of 
kindled  temper  and  wounded  vanity.  But  they  were 
good  sermons,  and  fell  on  the  ears  of  his  people  like 
dew  on  the  mown  grass,  and  showers  that  water  the 
field.  Sweet  pale  Margaret  Robbins  lifted  up  her  face, 
delicate  as  the  cup  of  a  wood-anemone,  toward  the 
high  pulpit,  and  wondered  what  fresh  coal  from  the 
altar  had  touched  her  father's  lips  ;  and  Deacon  Flint, 
harder  than  his  apt  name,  stirred  uneasily  in  his  square 
pew,  and  thought  many  of  such  sermons  might  meddle 
with  his  domestic  discipline,  and  put  new  and  revolu 
tionary  ideas  into  his  wife's  head.  But  at  the  end  of 
the  evening  sermon  the  parson  destroyed  the  lovely 
edifice  he  had  so  carefully  laid  up  through  the  day,  and 
restored  matters  to  their  usual  level  by  facing  about 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      171 

squarely  at  unlucky  Jim  Beebe,  who  sat  as  usual  in  the 
gallery,  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  the  congregation,  and 
vemarking  in  a  loud  voice,  "There,  young  man!  I 
have  preached  three  sermons  to-day,  and  have  not 
mentioned  the  name  of  your  father  once." 

Confusion  twice  confounded  fell  upon  Jim  and  Squire 
Battle  ;  and  a  light  rustle  of  choked  and  stifled  laughter 
ran  through  the  church,  while  the  parson  in  a  sonorous 
voice  gave  out  the  hymn  beginning,  — 

"  Why  do  the  wicked  boast  abroad  ?" 

Under  cover  of  this  remarkable  incident,  the  publish 
ment  of  Cal  and  Polly  went  into  obscurity  ;  and  in  due 
time  they  were  married,  and  Pollythi  was  installed  in 
the  little  red  house.  She  came  in  as  with  a  besom  of 
destruction,  fetching  store  of  linen  and  blankets,  fresh 
splint-bottomed  chairs,  a  new  clock,  a  set  of  blue-edged 
crockery,  and  sundry  other  plenishings.  Granny  Cul 
ver's  rickety  belongings  were  hustled  into  the  second 
story,  and  she  herself  bundled  out  of  her  warm  bed 
room,  opening  out  of  the  kitchen,  into  one  of  the  two 
up  stairs,  which  were  under  the  roof,  and,  in  this  July 
weather,  sweltering  hot.  But  Polly  announced  at  once 
that  she  "  wa'n't  a-goin'  trapesin'  up  and  down  them 
stairs  f orevermore ; ' '  and  granny,  being  in  a  feeble 
minority,  crept  up  the  sharp  ascent,  and  before  long 
ceased  to  come  down,  but  lay  there,  lonely  and  drowsy, 
day  after  day.  Polly  did  not  really  neglect  her.  She 
had  proper  food,  and  was  kept  painfully  clean.  A 
little  tenderness  would  have  reconciled  the  old  lady  to 
fewer  scrubbings  and  less  food ;  but  Polly  gave  what 
she  had  to  give.  Can  any  of  us  do  more  ?  Cal  was 
good  to  her  in  his  lazy  way ;  but  Cal  was  never  so  put 


172  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

about  in  his  own  house  before.  No  peace  was  left  him 
in  those  easy-going  precincts  where  he  had  been  used 
to  lie  round  at  his  leisure  ;  for  now  the  floor  was  white 
with  abundant  soaping  and  sanding  in  the  kitchen,  the 
sills  polished  with  scrubbing,  the  hearth  immaculate, 
the  very  jambs  whitewashed,  and  a  great  corn-husk 
mat  lay  before  every  door,  whereon  he  was  obliged,  at 
the  point  of  the  broom-handle,  to  rub  his  boots  before 
he  could  enter  ;  white  curtains  adorned  every  window  ; 
the  walls  glared  with  fresh  whiteness  ;  the  most  elabo 
rate  quilt  forbade  him  to  nap  on  the  bed,  —  to  rest  his 
head  on  those  shining  linen  pillow-cases  would  have 
made  it  as  uneasy  as  to  wear  a  crown  ;  and  the  chintz 
cushions  in  rocker  and  arm-chair  were  beautiful  for 
sight  and  situation,  but  their  poppies  and  roses  were 
never  meant  to  sit  down  on. 

It  is  true  that  Cal  had  never  before  been  regaled 
with  such  food  as  Polly thi  prepared.  Her  bread  was 
whiter  than  milk,  light  as  cork,  delicate  as  cake,  she 
wrought  it  after  a  secret  process  that  Bassett  maids  and 
matrons  pined  to  discover,  but  never  attained  ;  and  the 
game  Cal  brought  in  was  converted  into  savory  stews 
and  crisp  broils  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  French 
chef.  But  what  atones  for  domestic  peace?  How 
pathetic  is  the  declaration  of  Solomon  !  —  "  It  is  better 
to  dwell  in  a  corner  of  the  house-top  than  with  a  brawl 
ing  woman  in  a  wide  house." 

There  is  but  one  parallel  to  this  misery,  —  a  man  with 
dyspepsia.  And,  if  Solomon  left  him  out  in  this  speci 
fication,  it  is  because  he  was  a  man  himself ;  and  there 
is  a  way  made  and  provided  for  men  or  women  to  de 
fend  themselves  against  their  own  sex,  which  does  not 
hold  good  against  the  other. 


CAL   CULVER   AND   THE  DEVIL.  173 

If  Cal  Culver  had  taken  into  his  house  a  brother 
whose  days  were  spent  in  snapping  and  snarling,  in 
sulking  silently,  or  scolding  mercilessly,  he  would  forth 
with  have  extended  his  good  right  arm,  and  knocked 
dyspepsia  out  of  him  summarily  ;  but  against  a  woman, 
and  that  woman  his  wife,  he  was  comparatively  power 
less,  almost  as  powerless  as  the  dyspeptic's  wife  or 
children  would  be  against  his  afflictive  manners  and 
customs.  80  Polly thi  pursued  her  triumphant  career  ; 
and  Cal  inhabited  the  barn  and  the  woods  chiefly 
through  the  summer,  and  became  almost  a  fixture  by 
the  stove  of  Squire  Battle's  store  in  winter.  Polly 
grew  more  and  more  furious  over  his  defections  and 
short-comings  ;  and,  rather  than  consume  with  speech 
less  wrath,  she  spent  her  time,  between  the  occupations 
of  housekeeping,  in  pouring  that  wrath  into  poor  old 
granny's  ears  as  she  lay  on  her  feather-bed  in  the  loft. 
Granny  was  helpless  ;  for  winter  had  now  set  in,  and 
bound  her  hand  and  foot  with  "•  rheumatiz."  She  could 
not  even  creep  up,  and  sit  in  her  rocking-chair,  which 
Cal  had  insisted  should  be  carried  up  there  ;  but  it  was 
mighty  convenient  for  Pollythi,  who  sat  there  by  the 
.hour,  rocking  and  scolding  and  knitting,  till  granny 
learned  to  think  the  hiss  of  rushing  snows,  the  crackle 
of  sharp  sleet,  or  the  tireless  drip  of  chilly  rains,  upon 
the  roof  so  close  to  her  head,  a  song  of  comfort  in 
comparison  with  Polly's  long  diatribes.  And  when  Cal 
came  home  at  night,  or  occasionally  to  dinner,  the 
tongue- tempest  raged  frantically,  all  the  more  that  he 
seemed  neither  to  hear  nor  fear  this  wordy  assault,  but 
bore  himself  like 

"Feather-bed  'twixt  castle-wall 
And  heavy  brunt  of  cannon-ball," 


174  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

eating  his  dinner  as  placidly  and  deliberately  as  if  Polly 
and  he  were  Darby  and  Joan. 

He  did  feel  one  thing,  though  he  diplomatically  con 
cealed  it,  and  that  was  his  mother's  discomfort ;  for 
the  poor  old  woman  feebly  whimpered  her  woes  to  him 
whenever  they  had  a  moment  together,  and  he  saw  that 
her  life  was  a  burden  to  her  because  of  this  daughter 
of  Heth.  But  Cal  could  not  help  it ;  and  his  lazy,  sun 
shiny  nature  shook  off  trouble  as  a  duck  flirts  the  roll 
ing  waters  from  her  packed  and  glossy  feathers.  He 
said  nothing  to  Polly,  nor  even  let  her  know  that  he 
appreciated  his  mother's  sufferings :  discretion  was 
eminently  the  better  part  of  valor  here. 

The  year  rolled  on  into  summer  again,  and  again 
found  Cal  and  his  crony  fishing  in  latter  May  on  Long 
Lake.  The  orchards  were  heaped  with  rosy  bloom,  the 
woods  fresh  and  odorous  with  young  leaves  ;  gold-and- 
crimson  columbines  danced  on  the  rocky  shores,  and 
nodded  to  their  vivid  counterparts  in  the  still  wave 
below  ;  and  the  first  wood-robin  blew  his  fairy  clarion, 
resonant  as  a  silver  bell,  sweet  as  a  flute,  yet  shrill  as 
a  violin,  in  the  very  highest  boughs  of  the  forest :  but 
Cal  and  Jim,  blind  and  deaf  as  two  images  of  wood,* 
neither  saw  nor  heard  the  beauty  and  songs  about 
them  ;  they  were  absorbed  in  discussing  the  rules  and 
regulations  of  a  hunting- club  to  which  they  both  be 
longed,  and  which  gave  prizes  for  certain  achieve 
ments.  The  subject  had  been  introduced  by  the  sight 
of  a  heifer  calf,  apparently  pure  Devon,  grazing  peace 
fully  in  a  near  pasture.  It  was  Cal's  calf,  the  captive 
of  his  bow  and  spear  in  one  sense ;  for  he  had  won  it 
as  last  year's  prize. 

"  Pretty  critter,  ain't  it?  "  he  said  to  Jim. 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      175 

"Well,  yes,  middlin'.  I  dono  but  what  I  should 
think  'twas  all-fired  harnsome  ef  I'd  got  it  as  easy  as 
you  did,  Cal." 

"Easy!  I  tell  ye  it  took  some  huntin'  to  git  all 
them  heads."  And  Cal's  blue  eyes  twinkled  with  fun 
as  he  made  this  statement. 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw  !  You  be  the  beateree,  Cal  Cul,  of 
any  critter  I  ever  see.  There  ain't  another  feller  in 
Bassett  would  ha'  thought  o'  fetchin'  in  two  hundred 
mouse-heads  to  the  last  minnit,  and  claimin'  on  'em 
for  game,  so'st  they  couldn't  help  but  give  ye  the 
prize." 

"  Well,  they  was  game,  —  dreadful  lively  game  too. 
I  'arned  the  prize,  ef  ever  a  man  did." 

"  I  say  for't,  Cal,  ef  you  had  as  much  grit  as  you've 
got  gumption,  I  bet  you'd  be  put  up  for  guv' nor,  or 
hog-herd,  or  suthin',  afore  ye  die." 

"  Mebbe  I  should,  mebbe  I  should  ;  but  'tain't  wuth 
the  trouble,  Jim.  I'm  'flicted  with  a  chronic  overdid 
from  my  youth  up'ard,  as  Parson  Robbins  might  say. 
I  don't  see  no  payin'  property  in  workin'  yourself  to 
death  afore  your  time." 

"  It's  awful  lucky  you've  got  a  real  smart  wife,  now 
I  tell  ye." 

"Well,  there  might  be  two  ways  o'  lookin'  at  that, 
now,  Jim  Beebe.  There  is  sech  a  thing  as  bein'  too 
everlastin'  smart  and  spranxious  for  a  feller's  com 
fort." 

"  That's  so,"  briefly  assented  Jim. 

"Now,  I  don't  say  but  what  Polly thi's  a  smart 
woman,  —  an  orful  smart  woman  ;  but  she's  got  a  kind 
of  a  mighty  way  with  her,  so  to  speak,  a  kinder  pep 
pery  nater,  that  makes  things  lively  as  a  bumble-bee's 
nest  in  hayin'-time." 


176  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  She's  dreadful  neat,  ain't  she?" 

"Neat!  she's  cleaner'n  creation  arter  the  flood. 
There  dursn't  so  much  as  one  small  fly  skip  round 
where  she  is;  and  as  for  skeeters  —  my  land!  she'd 
ketch  'em  and  soap  their  feet,  if  they  durst  to  hum  one 
time  to  our  house.  I  b'lieve,  'twixt  you  and  me  and 
the  post,  she's  'most  washed  mother  away :  there  ain't 
but  mighty  little  left  of  her." 

"  Why,  she  used  to  be  kinder  fat  when  I  see  her." 

"Fat!  well,  she's  'bout  as  fat's  a  hen's  forehead, 
now,  I  tell  ye.  And  her  floor's  sloshed  over  with  a 
mop  so  frequent,  I  believe  honest,  she's  got  the  rheu- 
matiz  past  helpin',  or  pokeberry  rum." 

"Do  tell!" 

"  She  has,  sir.  Priest  Bobbins  he  come  to  see  her 
a  spell  ago,  and  he  praised  up  the  looks  o'  things 
amazin'.  Polly  she  nussed  him  up  with  a  mug  o'  flip 
and  a  lot  o'  'lection-cake,  till  he  was  as  pleasant  as  a 
young  rooster.  But  thinks  sez  I,  '  you're  nearer  to 
the  Devil,  a-settin'  right  there,  parson,  than  ever  you 
was  afore.'  By  jinks!  I  don't  want  no  wuss  Devil 
round  than  a  foreverlastin'  jawin'  woman,  Jim  Beebe, 
now  I  tell  ye." 

"  Thunder !  "  ejaculated  Jim,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  say  to  this  astonishing  burst  of  confidence  on  Cal's 
part. 

"Yes,  sir:  it's  thunder  and  lightnin'  too;  and  I 
dono  how  to  stand  it,  nor  how  to  git  red  on't." 

Jim  had  no  advice  to  give.  In  those  days  a  married 
pair  were  helpless,  however  incompatible  they  might 
be :  they  had  to  jog  along  the  highways  and  by-ways 
of  life  like  an  ill-mated  pair  of  oxen,  however  the 
yoke  galled  them,  or  however  much  they  wanted  to 


CAL   CULVER  AND   THE  DEVIL.  177 

gore  each  other.  It  was  a  relief  to  Cal  to  have  freed 
his  mind  to  Jim  Beebe,  whom  he  knew  to  be  reticent 
of  any  real  confidence  ;  but  it  was  only  a  temporary 
relief.  He  was  as  unhappy,  or  rather  as  uncomfort 
able,  as  a  person  of  his  temperament  could  be ;  and 
Pollythi  was  more  unhappy  still.  Before  two  years  of 
her  married  life  had  gone  by,  she  had  learned  thor 
oughly  to  despise  her  husband :  she  knew  him  to  be 
radically  lazy  and  self-indulgent,  — traits  for  which  she 
had  no  mercy  or  patience.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that 
in  her  own  way  she  equally  indulged  herself.  This  is 
a  nice  distinction  often  drawn  by  persons  who  do  not 
seem  able  to  see  that  self-indulgence  can  lie  in  yielding 
to  evil  temper  and  irritated  nerves  quite  as  surely,  and 
far  more  painfully  to  others,  than  in  giving  way  to  an 
indolent  and  ease-loving  nature.  Pollythi  even  claimed 
to  be  a  religious  woman,  or  to  have  such  intentions : 
she  had  assented  to  the  ' '  halfway  ' '  covenant  of  those 
times,  which  made  her  a  sort  of  postulant  for  full 
membership  at  some  future  period,  and  she  had  an 
honest  desire  to  be  a  good  woman.  But  she  was  quite 
unaware  how  bitter  and  stinging  her  speech  was  to 
Calvary,  how  differently  it  sounded  in  his  ears  and 
hers.  It  was  the  habit  of  her  life  to  scold  ;  but  it  was 
an  unpleasant  novelty  to  him,  and,  for  the  sake  of  what 
little  peace  was  left  to  his  mother,  he  forbore  conflict, 
but  chose  flight  instead.  Now,  if  Polly  Culver  ever  had 
loved  anybody  on  earth,  it  was  her  handsome,  worth 
less  husband  ;  and,  while  she  despised  his  character,  she 
raged  with  frantic  jealousy  at  his  neglect.  Anomalous, 
perhaps ;  but  women  are  all  anomalies.  She  would 
have  forgotten  all  his  sins,  had  he  condescended  to 
coaxing  and  caressing ;  but  she  would  have  gone  on 


178 


scolding  just  as  usual.  At  the  end  of  two  years 
Granny  Culver  died,  peacefully  and  joyfully.  She  was 
glad  to  go  somewhere  else,  if  her  faith  was  not  very 
vivid,  or  her  hope  clear.  A  sort  of  dim  but  helpful 
belief  upheld  her  to  the  verge  of  the  grave.  Naturally 
dull  of  intellect,  uneducated,  wearing  away  her  hard 
and  simple  life  in  the  pursuit  of  daily  bread,  yet  the 
relics  of  early  teaching  lingered  with  her,  and  she  died 
with  folded  hands,  saying  "Our  Father;"  and  the 
words  at  which  she  left  off  were,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

Calvary  went  after  Parson  Bobbins  to  attend  the 
funeral.  The  parson  himself  answered  that  stout 
thump  at  the  front-door. 

"  Say,  parson,  can  you  'tend  up  to  mother's  funeral 
to-morrer  ? ' ' 

"  Is  your  mother  dead,  Calvary?     Why,  why,  why  !  " 

"  Ef  she  wa'n't,  there  wouldn't  be  no  need  o'  a 
funeral,"  muttered  Calvary  under  his  breath;  for  the 
parson  was  a  little  deaf. 

"Well,  well!  What  was  the  matter?  What  was 
her  complaint?  What  did  she  die  of,  eh?  " 

"Pollythi,"  stoutly  responded  Cal. 

"Polypus?  Dear,  dear!  Strange  disorder.  I 
never  heard  of  a  case  in  these  parts." 

"  Pollythi,  I  said  !  "  shouted  the  indignant  son. 

"  Calvary  Culver  !  "  The  parson's  indignation  ren 
dered  him  speechless. 

"Well,  she  did  anyhow;  and  it's  a  wuss  disease'n 
t'other  polly,  a  heap.  I'm  like  to  die  on't  myself 
afore  long,  ef  somebody  don't  doctor  her  for't." 

"  Your  frame  of  mind  is  carnal  indeed,"  began  Par 
son  Bobbins,  "if  you  can  talk  such  talk  about  your 
lawful  wife." 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      179 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  say  nothin'  about  her  ef  she 
wa'n't  my  wife,"  answered  the  incorrigible  Cal.  "  But 
ef  a  man  dono  what  his  wife  is,  who  doos?  I  tell  ye, 
Pollythi's  the  Devil  and  all." 

"Hold  your  profane  tongue,  sir!"  flamed  the 
parson. 

"  'Tain't  no  sech.  It  don't  say  nowheres  in  the 
Bible  nothin'  about  takin'  Satan's  name  in  vain,  now, 
I'll  bet  ye.  Besides,  I  took  it  to  good  puppus,  an' 
I'll  say  it  agin  for  a  copper.  I'd  a  darn  sight  ruther 
the  Old  Boy  was  arter  me  than  Poll,  anyway." 

"  Calvary  Culver,  I've  a  great  mind  to  set  the  tithing- 
man  after  you  for  using  profane  and  loose  talk  ;  and  I 
will  surely,  if  you  offend  again.  This  is  not  to  be 
borne." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  to  the  p'int,  that's  a  fact,  parson. 
Let's  commence  to  the  beginnin'  agin.  Say,  would  you 
ruther  hev  the  corpse  fetched  to  the  meetin' -house? 
and  will  you  hev  funeral  services  to-morrow,  or  a  Thurs 
day?" 

"Thursday,  in  the  Lord's  house.  And  I  say  unto 
you,  Beware,  Calvary  Culver,  lest  you  be  taken  at  your 
word,  and  the  P^nemy  do  indeed  come  after  you  to 
enlist  you  in  his  service,  which  is  death." 

"  Amen  !  "  ejaculated  Calvary,  and  strode  off.  But 
why  did  he,  a  few  rods  down  the  road,  stop,  slap  his 
thigh  as  in  congratulation,  and  stifle  a  laugh  outwardly 
that  nevertheless  shook  him  all  over? 

On  Thursday  the  funeral  took  place  in  church.  Par 
son  Bobbins  preached  a  sermon  with  seventeen  heads, 
calculated  to  make  the  flesh  creep  on  the  bones  of  his 
audience,  and  with  abundant  mention  of  the  Enemy 
therein,  as  one  lying  in  wait  for  perishing  sinners,  — a 


180  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

point  he  directed  straight  at  the  chief  mourner  on  this 
occasion,  who  received  it  decorously,  though  he  after 
ward  was  heard  to  remark  to  Jim  Beebe,  that  he  did 
think  it  was  "  everlastin'  mean  to  jaw  at  a.  feller  like 
that  when  he  can't  noway  jaw  back." 

The  choir  also  did  their  part  at  exalting  the  misery 
and  despair  of  the  occasion,  by  wailing  out  in  the  dis 
cordant  manner  of  country  choirs,  "Mear,"  "  China," 
and  "Windham"  to  appropriate  words;  the  whole 
ceremony,  to  an  unbiassed  observer,  presenting  rather 
the  aspect  of  a  heathen  assemblage  howling  over  the 
dead,  than  a  Christian  church  celebrating  the  falling- 
asleep  of  a  sister  in  the  hope  of  a  joyful  resurrection. 
But,  as  this  style  of  funeral  service  is  still  prevalent 
among  us,  we  cannot  cast  any  stones  at  Bassett,  but 
must  turn  away,  and  follow  Cal  Culver  —  as  far  as  we 
can. 

Home  did  not  become  any  more  homelike,  or  Polly 
any  lovelier,  to  Calvary  after  his  mother's  death,  but 
rather  more  distasteful ;  and  before  long,  exasperated 
by  his  wife's  constant  vituperation,  and  unrestrained 
by  any  fear  of  troubling  the  poor  soul  who  lay  safe 
asleep  in  the  graveyard,  he  turned  upon  the  astonished 
Polly,  and  gave  her  a  good  shaking. 

This  finished  the  last  bit  of  kindly  feeling  in  her 
heart.  The  ' '  dynamic  reasons  of  larger  bones  ' '  did 
not  appear  logical  to  her :  she  raved  and  raged  like  a 
perfect  fury,  and  retaliated  by  throwing  the  piggin  of 
soft-soap  at  Calvary's  head,  —  a  missile  he  would  have 
found  sufficiently  uncomfortable,  if  Polly  could  have 
thrown  it  straight  enough  to  hit  him  ;  but,  as  it  was, 
it  only  broke  the  flax-wheel  in  its  flight,  and  poured 
its  contents  of  unsavory  jelly  over  the  basket  of  fresh- 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      181 

ironed  clothes.  Polly  fell  into  hysterics ;  and  Cal 
picked  her  up,  deposited  her  on  the  bed,  and  strode 
off. 

"What's  the  matter  o'  you?"  shouted  Jim  Beebe, 
who  was  going  by,  seated  in  an  ox-cart,  whistling,  and 
balancing  his  long  whip  as  the  heavy  red  beasts  made 
deliberate  progress  along  the  road. 

"Plenty,"  curtly  responded  Cal. 

"  Hain't  seen  the  Enemy,  hev  ye?  "  queried  Jim. 

"  "Wisht  I  had.  I'd  consider 'ble  ruther  go  to  the 
Devil  than  stay  to  hum  'long  o'  her,"  pointing  over  his 
shoulder  with  expressive  thumb  toward  the  house. 

"  Cal  Culver  !     What  ef  Priest  Bobbins  heerd  ye  ?  " 

"Well,  what  ef  he  did?  He  talk  about  the  Devil ! 
He  don't  know  nothin'.  Both  his  wives  died  pretty 
near  right  off ;  and  that  gal  o'  his'n  is  'most  too  good 
to  live,  folks  tell.  Folks  ain't  qualified  to  preach 
about  things,  onless  they  know  'em  so  to  be." 

"  Well,  there  is  suthin'  to  that,"  allowed  Jim,  urging 
on  his  slow  team.  "  Where  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Over  to  the  store,"  gloomily  answered  Cal.  "  I'm 
a-goin'  to  hire  out  a  spell  this  year ;  take  it  in  jobs. 
Ef  I  could  git  a  mite  o'  cash,  I'd  go  to  York  sure  as 
you're  born,  and  git  suthin'  to  do  there.  Mebbe  I'd  git 
onto  a  whaler." 

"  Why,  hain't  you  got  cash  enough?  I  thought  she 
had  rents  out  o'  the  housen  in  Har'ford." 

"  Heavens-to-Betsy  !  You  don't  think  I  ever  see  a 
copper  o'  her  cash,  do  ye?  It's  trusted  out  to  a  bank 
in  Har'ford  quick  as  lightnin'.  It  don't  never  peek  at 
Bassett;  and,  ef  it  did,  I  shouldn't  have  none  of  it." 

"But  I  b'lieve,  accordin'  to  law,  it's  all  your'n,  to 
hcvan'  to  hold,  ain't  it?" 


182  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

" 'Tain't  accordin'  to  Pollythi ;  and  that's  more  to 
the  p'int,  a  lot.  I  wouldn't  hev  it  nuther,  —  not  to  git  it 
by  law.  She'd  make  it  burn  my  fingers,  and  p'ison  my 
pocket.  No,  sir :  I  ain't  got  no  hankerin'  arter  work, 
but  I'd  ruther  hill  corn  than  squabble  for  her  money." 

"  Well,  well,  I  don't  say  but  I  agree  with  ye  so  fur. 
But  it  doos  seem  cur'us,  kinder,  how  she  works  it  with 
ye.  Say  !  Deacon  Flint  he  wants  help.  He's  a-plantin* 
the  ten-acre  medder  this  year  ;  and  he  reckons  to  hire, 
his  rheumatics  is  so  dreadful  bad." 

"I  sha'n't  get  puss-proud  on  his  pay,"  dryly  re 
marked  Cal;  "but  mebbe  I'd  better  take  up  with  it, 
seein'  it's  three  mile  off." 

"Haw,  haw,  haw!"  roared  Jim;  and  the  oxen, 
roused  by  that  familiar  sound,  turned  placidly  off  to 
the  left.  And  while  Jim  was  trailing  them  back  into 
position  with,  "  Gee,  Buck  !  gee,  I  tell  ye,  Bright !  git 
up!  gee,  can't  ye?"  and  sundry  cracks  of  the  whip, 
Calvary  stalked  off  the  other  waj^,  and  at  night  an 
nounced  to  Pollythi  that  he  had  ' '  got  a  job ' '  at 
Deacon  Flint's. 

He  worked  here  pretty  steadily  for  a  week  or  two, 
ploughing  the  great  field  for  winter  rye,  and  renewing 
the  fence,  which  was  old  and  feeble  ;  being  very  little 
at  home,  and  receiving  Polly's  wordy  flights  with  con 
temptuous  silence.  He  took  his  dinner  always  to  the 
field,  —  an  abundant  and  wholesome  provision,  for  Polly 
never  stinted  any  one  in  their  food,  —  and  matters  ap 
peared  to  have  settled  down  into  an  armed  neutrality, 
when  one  noon-time  a  mighty  knocking  startled  Parson 
Bobbins  from  his  sermon-writing ;  and  he  opened  the 
door  to  behold  Calvary  Culver,  his  fair  hair  disturbed 
as  if  it  had  been  standing  on  end,  his  eyes  big  as  sau- 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      183 

cers,  and  drops  of  sweat  thick  over  all  his  face,  which 
was  disturbed  by  a  wild  look  of  terror  and  dismay. 

"O  Lord,  parson  !  I've  been  and  gone  and  done  it 
now!"  he  exclaimed,  as  the  parson's  square  dark 
visage  glared  sternly  upon  him  over  the  lower  half  of 
the  door. 

"  Set  a  guard  on  your  lips,  Calvary  Culver,"  indig 
nantly  exclaimed  the  parson. 

"O  L —  Oh!  Well,  th'  occasion  kinder  needs 
cussin'.  Well,  I  won't:  so  there.  But  I  do  want 
to  tell  ye  suthin',  parson.  I'm  under  concern,  so  to 
speak  :  I  want  dealin'  with." 

The  parson's  face  brightened. 

"Bless  the  Lord!  Walk  in,  my  friend;  walk  in! 
This  is  indeed  to  be  rejoiced  in." 

"Idono,"  said  Cal  ruefully:  "I  should  say 'twas 
to  be  t'other  thinged  myself." 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  the  parson,  when  he  had 
piloted  him  to  the  study,  pointing  to  a  splint-bottomed 
chair  hard  and  straight  enough  to  have  served  as  a 
stool  of  repentance,  —  "sit  there,  and  let  us  reason 
together. ' ' 

"  Well,  fust  and  foremost  I  want  to  tell  ye  suthin'  ; 
then  you  kin  reason  on't,  ef  you  hanker  to.  I  don't. 
I'm  nigh  about  skeered  to  death,  parson.  I  swan  to 
man  I  be  !  " 

"  Cannot  you  tell  your  story  without  unseemly  words, 
my  friend?  "  objected  the  parson. 

"  Well,  I  dono's  I  can,  and  I  dono  as  I  can  :  fact  is, 
I  want  suthin'  to  h'ist  me  along,  as  it  might  be,  seem- 
in'ly,  and  I'm  used  to  them  words  you  tell  about. 
Lordy  !  what's  words?  They  don't  mean  nothin'  when 
you're  used  to  'em,  no  more'n  a  cat-bird's  scoldin'  ; 
come  kinder  nateral." 


184      SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Well,  well,  go  on!"  ejaculated  the  parson,  who 
really  felt  much  more  like  swearing  than  Calvary  ;  for 
it  was  late  in  the  week,  and  a  happy  train  of  thought 
in  his  sermon  curtly  interrupted. 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  a-workin'  for  Deacon  Flint ;  ben 
a-ploughin'  and  seedin'  down  and  harrerin'  that  'ere 
ten-acre  medder  o'  his'n.  He  don't  pay  fust-rate,  ye 
know  :  but  for  sartin  private  reasons,  such  as  the  man 
had  that  killed  the  goose,  I  wanted  a  job  that  wa'n't 
nigh  hum  ;  so  I  took  up  with  that.  Well,  I  was  har- 
reriu'  away  this  moriiin',  'most  to  the  eend  o'  the  lot, 
and  kinder  speculatin'  whether  or  no  I'd  go  to  choppin' 
to-morrer,  or  whether  I'd  go  up  on  to  the  mounting, 
and  snare  a  mess  o'  pa'tridges." 

"  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow,"  put  in  the  parson 
solemnly. 

"I  wa'n't,  as  I  knows  of;  but  I  kinder  hankered 
arter  them  birds :  they've  ben  a-fattin'  up  on  the 
deacon's  buckwheat  this  four  weeks  back,  and  they'll 
be  plump  as  punkins.  Well,  that  ain't  here  nor  there. 
But,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  got  nigh  about  to  the  road-eend 
o'  the  lot,  and  I  see  somebody  a-comin'  full  tilt  down 
the  road.  Thinks  me,  that's  Jim  Beebe :  so  I  let  the 
critters  stop.  They'd  allefs  ruther  stop,  ye  know,  than 
go  'long,  oxen  would:  they're  slower'n  molasses." 

The  parson  wiped  his  damp  face.  To  a  man  of  his 
temper  this  prolixity  was  maddening.  "  Well,  well, 
well,  never  mind  the  team.  Go  on,  Calvary." 

"  Why,  I  was  a-goin'  on.  Well,  you  see,  I  kinder 
leaned  up  agin  the  fence  to  wait  for  him  ;  but,  when  he 
come  along,  I  see  'twa'n't  nobody  I  ever  see  afore,  nor 
nobody't  looked  like  anybody  I  ever  see  afore.  'Twas 
a  dreadful  dark-complected  man,  reel  spry  appcarin', 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.      185 

—  one  that  looked  as  though  his  name  was  Smart,  now 
I  tell  ye.  My,  how  them  eyes  o'  his'n  did  snap !  — 
jest  like  Pollythi's  when  she  throwed  the  piggin  at  my 
head,  only  he  didn't  act  noways  mad,  and  I  didn't 
think  nothin'  strange  o'  his  eyes  till  I  come  to  rec'lect 
them  arter  he'd  gone.  You  know,  parson,  folks  don't 
allers  sense  things  right  off :  they  sorter  call  'em  to 
mind,  so  to  speak,  as  it  might  be,  arter  they've  gone 
by.  Well,  he  come  along  and  spoke  reel  civil ;  sez, 
4  How  be  ye?  '  or  suthin' :  'tain't  no  great  matter  what 
he  did  say ;  I  guess  'twas  'bout  the  weather.  But  he 
went  on  fur  to  say,  '  Got  a  job,  hain't  ye? '  — '  Well,' 
sez  I,  '  I  hev  and  I  hain't.  I've  got  through  here : 
there's  quite  a  spell  o'  choppin'  in  his  wood-lot  I 
could  hev,  I  s'pose,  ef  I  hankered  to.'  —  'Well,'  sez 
he,  '  I  want  a  feller  of  'bout  your  heft  to  work  for  me 
a  spell.  I'll  give  good  wages.'  So  I  sez,  '  What '11 
ye  give?'  for  I  wa'n't  gittin'  but  three-an' -sixpence 
by  the  day,  boardin'  myself.  Ye  know  Deacon  Flint's 
a  dreadful  near  man  :  he  dursn't  look  at  a  dollar  out 
side  his  pocket,  it  scares  him  so.  So  I  reckoned  here 
was  a  chance  of  a  betterment ;  and  ef  he  didn't  up  and 
offer  me  a  dollar  right  off,  and  found  !  ' ' 

44  Filthy  lucre,"  groaned  the  parson. 

44  No,  he  wa'n't  filthy  a  mite  :  he  was  dressed  up  for 
'lection,  I  tell  ye,  ef  he  was  lookin'  ;  but  I  snapped 
him  up  jest  as  a  pickerel  does  a  shiner.  Sez  I,  '  I'm 
your  feller.'  —  '  Well,'  sez  he,  '  you  might  go  'long  an' 
hire  out  to  somebody 't  offered  ye  more  :  let's  hev  it  in 
writin'.  I  b'lieve  in  contracks.'  —  '  Hev  it  your  own 
way,'  sez  I :  '  fetch  on  your  contrack.'  So  he  whipped 
a  little  book  out  o'  his  pocket,  an'  sez  he,  'I  keep  my 
'greements  writ  out  in  here.  I'm  a-hirin'  out  a  lot 


186  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

o'  men  for  this  here  coalin'  job.'  I  dono's  I  men 
tioned,  parson,  he  told  me,  fust  go  off,  'twas  a  coalin' 
job.  '  So  now,'  sez  he,  '  write  your  name  down  here.' 
— '  Jeerus'lem! '  sez  I,  '  I  don't  keep  pen  and  ink  in 
my  breeches-pocket ;  do  you  ?  '  He  larf ed  a  little,  and 
then  he  sez,  '  Well,  prick  your  finger :  there's  a  crow's 
feather  ;  I'll  make  a  pen  for  ye.'  Sure  enough  he  did, 
and  I  jest  scratched  a  place  on  my  arm  till  I  fetched  a 
leetle  mite  o'  blood,  and  writ  my  name  down  in  the 
book  with  that  crow-quill  as  sure  as  you're  a  livin* 
critter. ' ' 

"  Singular,"  muttered  the  parson. 

"  Sing'lar  !  I  guess  it  was.  Fust  I  knew  he  wa'n't 
there.  I'd  dropped  my  whip-stock  while  I  was  writin'  ; 
and,  when  I'd  writ,  sez  I,  '  Where  do  ye  live  ?  '  —  '  Well, 
quite  a  ways  off,  down  by  the  Kingdom,'  sez  he  ;  '  but 
I'll  come  and  fetch  ye  a  Friday  come  two  weeks,  to-day 
bein'  Saturday.'  So  then  I  bent  clown  to  git  my  whip- 
stock  ;  and,  as  sure  as  you're  born,  when  I  straightened 
up,  that  black  feller  wa'n't  there  ;  but  there  was  the 
all-firedest  stink !  Thunder !  ef  you'd  had  a  bonfire 
o'  roll  brimstone,  'twouldn't  ha'  ben  no  wuss.  That 
struck  me  all  of  a  heap.  I  know'd  what  that  meant 
quicker'n  punk.  Sartin  as  you  live,  I'd  gin  a  contrack 
to  the  Enemy,  and  he'll  be  arter  me  immediate.  Now, 
what  be  I  a-goiu'  to  do,  parson?  " 

Parson  Kobbins  paced  up  and  down  his  small  study, 
his  eye  kindled,  and  his  head  erect,  like  one  who  snuffs 
the  battle  afar  off,  muttering  to  himself,  half  aloud, 
"  He  goeth  about  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  he 
may  devour ;  but  resist  him,  yea,  resist  the  Devil,  and 
he  shall  flee  from  thee.  This  kind  goeth  not  out  save 
by  prayer  and  fasting. — Calvary  Culver,"  turning  to 


CAL   CULVER    AND   THE   DEVIL.  187 

the  victim,  who  sat  watching  him  with  a  peculiar  look 
of  intelligence  and  craft  in  his  half-shut  eye,  —  Calvary 
Culver,  this  is  an  awful  warning  to  you.  Repent,  and 
flee  from  all  your  evil  doings.  You  have  lived  a  kind 
of  a  shiftless  life,  not  profitable  to  God  or  man,  nor 
according  to  your  chief  end ;  and  now  Satan  hath 
desired  to  have  thee.  But  the  Adversary  shall  be  put 
to  flight.  I  will  appoint  a  day  of  fasting  and  prayer 
in  the  church.  It  shall  be  the  day  of  your  master's 
arrival  to  fetch  you ;  but  by  the  help  of  the  Lord  we 
will  slay  a  thousand,  yea,  we  will  put  ten  thousand  to 
flight." 

"Well  now,  parson,  I  didn't  expect  to  give  ye  no 
sech  trouble,"  said  Cal,  looking  a  little  uneasy.  "I 
thought  I'd  oughter  tell  ye,  so'st  ef  I  was  took  away 
sudden,  you  might  kinder  suspect  whereabouts  I  was  ; 
and  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  could  give  me  suthin', 
some  kind  of  a  word,  ye  know,  like  them  long  ones  in 
the  fust  part  o'  the  Bible,  to  scare  him  off,  ef  he  reelly 
was  the  Old  Boy." 

' '  I  will  have  the  day  of  prayer  appointed  very 
shortly,"  went  on  the  parson,  giving  little  heed  to  Cal's 
remonstrances  or  suggestions.  "  To-morrow  is  already 
occupied  with  another  subject :  I  am  advised  to  pray 
for  rain." 

"Well,  'tis  everlastin'  dry,  that's  a  fact.  I  dono's 
that  winter  wheat  ever  will  come  up  anyhow,"  assented 
Calvary. 

"Besides,  I  think  it  better  to  appoint  the  day  the 
Evil  One  hath  himself  set ;  for  I  think  he  will  scarcely 
venture  into  the  house  of  the  Lord  to  seize  his  prey." 

And  the  parson  smiled  a  grim  smile,  as  who  should 
say,  "  I  have  outgeneraled  the  enemy." 


188  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

So  Calvary  left  him,  and  went  his  way,  finished  his 
day's  work,  and  told  Pollythi  the  whole  story  at  the 
tea-table. 

At  first  that  strong-minded  woman  was  disinclined 
to  accept  the  tale  ;  but  education  and  superstition  were 
too  much  for  her :  she  ended  by  believing  it  all,  and 
prepared  for  church  in  the  morning  with  a  sense  of 
personal  importance,  for  heretofore  she  had  not  con 
sidered  her  husband  of  enough  consequence  for  even 
the  Devil  to  come  after  him. 

It  was  a  splendid  October  day.  The  abundant  for 
ests  burned  in  the  soft  red  sunshine  like  crusted  gems 
and  dead  gold ;  the  air  was  sweet  and  sad  with  odors 
of  dying  foliage  and  fading  flowers.  A  rich  silence 
brooded  over  the  hills  and  fields  of  Bassett,  broken 
only  by  the  first  sounding  of  the  bell  for  service,  which 
aroused  here  and  there,  in  answer  to  its  summons, 
clouds  of  dust  from  the  ash-dry  roads,  stirred  by  the 
heavy  wagons  and  deliberate  horses  of  the  more  dis 
tant  farmers. 

The  day  was  so  quiet,  so  serene,  the  blue  heaven  and 
the  gorgeous  misty  hills  so  lovely  in  their  calm  repose, 
that  Bassett  might  have  passed  for  a  bit  of  paradise. 
But,  to  the  astonishment  of  everybody,  Parson  Robbins 
trotted  across  the  green  to  church,  carrying  a  great 
green  umbrella. 

"  Why,  parson,"  asked  Squire  Battle,  who  was 
"standing  around"  on  the  meeting-house  steps, 
"ain't  ye  kind  of  prematoor?  There  ain't  the  first 
sign  o'  rain." 

"I  shall  fetch  her!  I  shall  fetch  her!"  sharply 
answered  the  parson,  as  if  his  neighbor  had  been 
doubting  Thomas ;  and,  to  be  sure,  before  the  second 


CAL  CULVER  AND  THE  DEVIL.  189 

service  was  well  begun,  the  mists  gathered  depth  and 
then  blackness  ;  light  winds  sighed  through  the  forest, 
and  died  out  in  ominous  quiet ;  thunder  growled  afar 
off,  drew  nearer  and  nearer ;  and  then  the  heavens 
opened  suddenly,  dashing  their  stores  of  rain  upon  the 
thirsty  earth,  and  drowning  the  parson's  triumphant 
burst  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  in  the  clatter  it  made 
on  the  old  church-roof.  The  people  were  impressed, 
as  well  they  might  be ;  and  when  the  parson  went  on  to 
appoint  a  day  of  fasting  and  prayer,  the  next  Friday 
week,  for  a  brother  in  distress  and  danger,  a  feeling  of 
awe  and  interest  stole  through  the  congregation ;  and 
after  service  was  over  many  a  question  was  asked,  and 
answer  suggested.  But  the  parson  spoke  to  nobody : 
he  went  home  in  silence.  He  had  never  felt  nearer  to 
God,  or  more  sure  of  victory  over  Satan,  than  now. 

Cal  and  Jim  Beebe  went  home  together  through  the 
rain,  which  had  quieted  down  now  to  a  cold  drizzle. 
Some  neighbors  had  taken  Pollythi  into  their  wagon. 

"Parson's  a  hero  at  prayer,  ain't  he?"  suggested 
Jim. 

"Well,  he  ain't  nothin'  else." 

"  But  who  d'you  suppose  the  feller  is  in  sech  trouble 
they've  got  to  hev  a  meetin'  about  him.?  " 

Cal  gave  him  an  expressive  punch  with  his  elbow. 
"  Lawful  sakes  !  it's  me,  Jim." 

"Sho!"  Jim  exclaimed,  standing  still,  and  facing 
round  at  Calvary  with  wide  eyes  and  open  mouth. 

u  'Tis,  I  tell  ye.  Now  shet  up  that  mouth  o'  your'n, 
and  come  along,  and  I'll  tell  ye  the  hull  on't." 

So  he  poured  his  tale  into  Jim's  willing  ear,  whether 
with  any  additions  or  emendations,  history  has  not 
recorded :  if  there  were,  the  reader's  imagination  must 


190  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

supply  them.  It  is  only  sure  that  Jim  went  home  with 
an  expression  of  mixed  amusement  and  astonishment 
on  his  face,  that  did  not  do  credit  to  the  solemnity  of 
the  story. 

At  last  the  eventful  Friday  arrived.  Parson  Rob- 
bins,  after  much  pondering,  had  marshalled  and  ordered 
his  forces,  and  planned  his  battle-array.  Calvary  was 
ushered  into  the  gallery  of  the  meeting-house,  and 
placed  in  the  front-seat.  He  had  on  his  Sunday  suit : 
his  hair  was  laid  as  flat  as  those  rebellious  curls  could  be 
by  the  aid  of  a  tallow  candle  assiduously  applied  ;  and 
his  handsome  face  was  shining  with  yellow  soap,  and 
water ;  his  boots  had  a  portentous  creak  to  them ; 
and  his  blue  eyes  were  empty  of  all  expression,  as  he 
sat  there,  his  great  red  hands  clasping  a  still  redder 
bandanna  handkerchief,  and  he  himself  supported  by 
the  proud  consciousness  that  he  was  the  object  of  all 
this  bustle  and  attention.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs 
leading  into  the  gallery,  Simeon  Tucker,  the  black 
smith,  holding  a  mighty  stick,  stood  on  guard,  lest  the 
Old  Boy  should  take  on  himself  to  come  in  person,  and 
nab  Cal  Culver  before  meeting  was  over ;  and  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  another  muscular  brother,  with 
another  stick,  looked  both  ways  with  his  cross-eyes,  as 
if  he  kept  double  watch  and  ward.  Jim  Beebe,  escort 
ing  Cal  to  the  door,  as  became  a  true  comrade,  sug 
gested  the  idea  to  him  that  the  parson  had  picked  out 
Josiah  on  this  very  account,  and  Calvary  found  it  hard 
to  repress  an  indecorous  chuckle. 

But,  once  in  the  church,  chuckling  was  at  an  end. 
The  parson  read  long  selections  from  the  Bible  ;  all 
the  minatory  Psalms,  to  begin  with,  and  then  every 
verse  he  could  find  under  the  heads  relating  to  Satan  in 


CAL   CULVER   AND   THE   DEVIL.  191 

the  Concordance ;  then  certain  awful  hymns,  minor  in 
key  and  minor  in  thought,  were  wailed  and  groaned 
out  by  the  congregation ;  then  the  parson  prayed,  and 
Deacon  Flint  prayed,  till  the  very  gates  of  heaven 
seemed  to  be  stormed.  Then  there  was  more  reading, 
followed  by  a  short  discourse  of  twelve  heads  only,  in 
which  the  parson  gave  a  full  account  of  "  the  young 
man's"  experience,  and  a  historic  and  biographic 
account  of  the  Devil,  going  back  to  Eden.  During  the 
first  part  of  the  discourse  Cal  sat  on  thorns.  He  was 
not  overly  modest  or  shy,  but  to  be  the  centre  of  all 
those  eyes  was  abashing  even  to  him  ;  and,  moreover, 
he  was  much  bored  with  the  whole  matter.  The  seat 
was  hard,  the  day  was  warm,  as  late  October  days 
sometimes  are :  he  was  hungry,  and  thirsty  too ;  for 
though  he  had  tied  up  a  loaf  of  rye  bread  and  several 
slices  of  cheese  in  a  handkerchief  that  morning,  and 
filled  a  flat  bottle  with  cider,  he  did  not  fetch  them  to 
church. 

After  the  sermonT  praying  began  again.  Every 
brother  present  "  desired  to  jine  ''  in  the  exercise,  and 
the  sun  was  ready  to  set  before  these  zealous  members 
gave  out.  Flesh  and  blood  could  not  bear  it  longer ; 
and  at  last  Parson  Robbins  wound  up  the  meeting  with 
a  pointed  but  brief  exhortation  to  Cal,  and  a  benedic 
tion.  Then  the  two  stalwart  men,  clubs  and  all, 
escorted  Calvary  to  his  own  house,  lest  some  outlying 
fiend  should  snap  him  up ;  while  Pollythi  lingered  a 
little  to  talk  it  all  over  with  Deacon  Flint's  wife. 

The  spiritual  constables  brought  him  safely  to  the 
red  house,  and  declared  afterward  that  he  seemed 
much  solemnized  by  the  way,  and  thanked  them  kindly 
for  their  good  offices.  He  shut  the  door  upon  them 


192  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

with  a  composed  countenance ;    but  from  that  day  to 
this  Calvary  Culver  was  never  again  seen  in  Bassett. 

Many  were  the  conjectures  as  to  his  fate ;  though 
most  people  believed,  with  Parson  Robbins,  that  the 
Devil  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  had  taken  him  off, 
body  and  soul,  as  well  as  his  new  overalls,  which  were 
missing.  Pollythi  mourned  him  decorously ;  but  in  a 
couple  of  years  married  again,  in  spite  of  Jim  Beebe's 
remonstrances,  and  his  wild  idea  that  Cal  might  turn 
up  yet.  But  he  never  did ;  and  to  this  day  Bassett 
people  tell  the  shuddering  tale  of  Cal  Culver  and  the 
Devil. 


AMANDAR. 

"  What's  in  a  name  ?  " 

"  'TAIN'T  no  use,  Keery ;  you  needn't  take  me  to 
do  no  more.  I  shall  hev  that  young  un  called  accordin' 
to  the  counsel  of  my  own  will,  as  Cat'chism  says.  If 
a  man  hain't  got  a  right  to  put  a  name  to  his  own 
child,  I  don'  know  who  lies." 

"Well,  well,  talk,  do  talk,  Bezy  Hills.  Who  said 
you  shouldn't?  I  jest  kinder  throwed  in  an  idee,  as 
ye  may  say.  I  think  Scripter  names  are  seemly  for 
deacons'  folks;  an',  ef  you  don't  want  no  Scripter 
names  round,  why,  I  can't  help  it.  Folks  will  be 
folksy,  I  s'pose,  an'  mother  she  always  said  'twas  rule 
or  ruin  with  Bezy  when  you  wa'n't  more'n  knee-high 
to  a  grasshopper ;  an'  what's  bred  in  the  bone'll  come 
out  in  the  flesh,  I've  always  heered,  an' ' 

The  monologue  was  cut  short  here  by  the  slam  of 
the  kitchen-door,  as  Bezaleel  Hills  fled  into  the  shed 
from  the  scourge  of  tongues. 

Widow  Walker  was  his  elder  sister,  a  weakly,  buzz 
ing,  fluent,  but  not  unprincipled  woman.  She  had  a 
long  nose,  a  f alien-in  and  yet  wide  mouth,  a  distinct 
chin,  and  a  pair  of  weak  gray  eyes  with  red  lids,  all 
overshadowed  by  a  severe  front  of  false  chestnut  hair 
set  in  stiff  puffs,  making  her  face  look  like  those  trian 
gular  heads  which  the  schoolboy's  pencil  bestows  upon 

103 


194  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

a  cat  when  he  solaces  the  dull  hours  of  his  education, 
by  means  of  a  slate  meant  for  far  other  purposes. 

Bezaleel  had  lost  his  wife  six  months  ago,  exchan 
ging  her  for  the  fat  baby  now  lying  in  his  sister's  lap 
before  the  fire.  He  was  a  silent  man  in  regard  to  his 
affections,  though  voluble  enough  as  to  his  will  and 
opinions.  Sister  Kerenhappuch  had  not  the  least  idea 
how  his  soul  was  bound  up  in  the  delicate,  shy  creature 
who  had  been  his  wife  only  five  years,  or  how  he  had 
labored  to  give  her  such  rude  comforts  as  a  country 
village  could  afford.  It  had  been  the  one  joy  of  his 
life  to  see  the  dark,  soft  eyes  shine  when  he  entered 
the  door,  and  his  solitary  reward  to  know,  that,  even 
in  the  delirium  of  death,  his  voice  could  quiet  her,  and 
her  last  conscious  word  was  "  Dear  !  " 

When  he  banged  the  door  to-day,  Keery  did  not 
know  that  his  cold  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  thinking 
of  Amanda  and  his  own  solitude.  She  gave  a  sigh  of 
obtrusive  length  and  volume,  as  who  should  say,  "  Such 
is  life,  and,  slowly  squeaking  to  and  fro  in  the  old 
rocker,  began  to  sing  to  the  baby,  who  threatened  to 
awake  when  the  door  slammed,  that  excellent  but 
unpleasant  old  hymn,  — 

"  Broad  is  the  road  that  leads  to  death," 

to  the  equally  unpleasant,  if  not  as  excellent,  tune  of 
"Windham." 

As  the  long-drawn,  doleful  whine  of  the  cadences 
kept  tune  to  the  slow  squeak  of  the  rocker,  the  baby, 
like  a  child  of  sense,  objected,  and  not  only  woke,  but 
set  up  a  scream  so  lively  and  so  sharp,  that  the  wail 
of  his  aunt's  voice  hushed  before  the  fresh  life  of  this 
infantine  chorus.  She  stopped  singing,  reversed  her 


AMANDAR.  195 

charge  across  her  knee,  gave  him  two  smart  resound 
ing  slaps,  and,  tucking  him  vigorously  under  one  arm, 
proceeded  to  warm  his  supper  in  the  flat  silver  porrin 
ger  that  was  an  heirloom  of  unknown  antiquity,  and 
so  appease  his  temper. 

A  week  after,  having  relegated  him  to  the  care  of  a 
poor  neighbor  (paid  for  the  office  with  a  peck  of  tur 
nips)  ,  she  betook  herself  to  sewing-society,  a  big  silk 
bag  on  her  left  arm,  a  calash  on  her  head,  and  her 
Sunday  gown  of  black  bombazine  adorned  by  a  vast 
tamboured  muslin  collar,  while  her  chestnut  front  looked 
sterner  than  ever  surmounted  by  a  structure  of  black 
lace  and  hard  dark  purple  satin  ribbons. 

Five  old  women  about  a  quilt !  Can  the  pen  of  one 
give  a  tithe  of  their  conversation  record?  Let  us 
attempt  but  a  part  of  it.  Mrs.  Green  began  the  tour 
nament. 

"  I  hain't  seen  ye  a  month  o'  Sundays,  Miss  Walk 
er  :  where  do  ye  keep  yerself  ?  ' ' 

"Why,  I've  ben  to  hum.  'Taint  real  handy  to 
take  to  baby-tendin'  when  ye  git  along  in  years  a 
spell ;  but  there  don't  seem  to  be  nobody  else  to  take 
care  of  Bezy's  babe  but  me.  Bezy's  as  pernickity  as 
a  woman  about  the  child :  he  won't  lemme  give  it  a 
speck  of  nothin'  but  red  cow's  milk ;  an'  he's  nigh 
,  about  seven  months  old,  an'  he'd  oughter  set  in  lap 
to  the  table,  an'  take  a  taste  o'  vittles  along  with  us. 
My  land !  my  children  used  to  set  to  an'  grab  things 
as  quick  as  ever  I  fetched  'em  where  they  could. 
Little  Jemimy  was  the  greatest  hand  for  b'iled  cabbage 
ye  ever  did  see  ;  an'  pork  !  —  how  that  child  would  holler 
for  fried  pork  !  There  wa'n't  no  peace  to  the  wicked 
till  she  got  it.  She'd  ha'  ben  a  splendid  child  ef  she'd 


196  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

lived.  But  the  summer  complaint  was  dreadful  preva 
lent  that  year ;  an'  it  took  her  off  in  the  wink  of  an 
eye,  as  ye  may  say :  allers  doos  the  healthy  children. 
Then  my  Samwell,  why,  he  was  the  greatest  hand  for 
pickles  that  ever  was :  he'd  git  a  hunk  o'  fried  steak 
into  one  leetle  hand,  an'  a  pickle  into  t'other,  an'  he 
would  crow  an'  squeal.  Cuttin'  of  his  stomach-teeth 
was  the  end  o'  him :  got  'em  too  early ;  was  took  with 
convulsions,  an'  died  right  off.  An'  the  twins :  well, 
they  favored  beans,  — baked  beans  an'  minute-puddin'. 
They  was  eighteen  months  old  when  they  died,  an'  they 
eet  toast  an'  cider  like  good  fellers  only  the  day  they 
was  took  sick.  We'd  hed  buckwheats  an'  tree  molasses 
for  breakfast  that  day ;  an'  I  expect  they'd  eet  so 
much  sweet,  it  kinder  made  'em  squeamy,  so't  the 
hard  cider  jest  hed  the  right  tang.  Poor  little  cre- 
turs  !  Mabbe  'twas  the  bilious  colic  a-comin'  on  made 
'em  dry :  anyway  they  was  awful  sick  with  't,  an'  they 
died  a  Sunday  week,  for  they  was  took  of  a  Sunday, 
an'"  — 

Miss  Polly  Paine,  a  short,  plump  old  maid,  gently 
interrupted  here  :  she  thought  widow  Walker  had  occu 
pied  the  floor  long  enough. 

k'But  say,  what  do  ye  give  it  red  cow's  milk  for? 
I  never  knowed  there  was  any  great  o'  virtoo  in  red 
cows."  , 

"  Sakes  alive!"  Here  Semanthy  House,  Deacon 
House's  wife,  took  up  the  thread  of  conversation.  "I 
want  to  know  ef  ye  didn't?  Why,  red's  the  power- 
fulest  thing !  You  jest  put  a  red  flannel  round  your 
throat,  an'  it  won't  never  be  sore ;  an'  a  red  string  in 
your  ears'll  keep  off  fever,  everybody  knows.  But 
then  I  don't  hold  to  fetchin'  up  a  child  on  milk  alto- 


AMANDAR.  197 


gether :  they  won't  never  make  old  bones  that  way. 
I  b'lieve  in  hearty  vittles  for  everybody.  Pie's  real 
hearty,  ef  ye  make  it  good,  an'  so's  cheese,  when  ye 
can't  git  butcher's  meat.  I  b'lieve  I  could  stan'  it  the 
year  round  on  pie  an'  cheese  an'  baked  beans." 

"Well,  ye  see,"  pottered  on  Mrs.  Walker,  who 
seized  a  chance  to  begin  again,  "Bezy  he  won't  hear 
to  no  reason :  he  claims  he  knows  more  about  fetchin' 
up  children  than  I  do,  spite  of  my  hevin'  lied  four  on 
'em.  He  speaks  about  their  all  dyin'  off,  an'  says  he 
wants  his'n  to  live,  —  a-flyin'  in  the  face  of  Providence, 
as  ye  may  say ;  for  we  all  know  folks  die  by  the  dis 
pensations  of  Providence,  an'  mortal  man  can't  say, 
'  Why  do  ye  so?  '  to  the  Lord.  But  I  don't  know  but 
what  brother  Bezy  thinks  he  can.  He  sets  dreadful 
loose  to  religion,  'specially  doctrines  an'  sech ;  says 
he  wishes  't  Parson  Pine  wouldn't  say  sech  a  lot  about 
'lection,  an'  hell,  an'  decrees,  an'  more  about  mercy 
an'  lovin'-kindness.  Land !  I  want  to  know  how 
you're  goin'  to  fetch  hardened  old  sinners  like  some 
ye  could  mention,  ef  ye  was  a-min'  to  —  an'  I  guess  we 
all  know  who  they  be  without  namin'  of  'em  —  inter 
the  kingdom,  ef  ye  couldn't  scare  'em  out  of  their 
seven  senses  a-shakin'  of  'em  over  the  pit,  as  ye  may 
say.  They  don't  mind  nothin'  but  a  real  scare,  an' 
they  don't  mind  that  no  great.  I  feel  to  wonder  real 
often  why  sech  folks  is  spared  to  "  — 

Polly  Paine  broke  in  again.  She  knew  by  experi 
ence  that  widow  Walker  would  talk  interminably  if 
they  waited  for  her  easy  tongue  to  stop  of  itself. 

"Say,  what  be  you  a-goin'  to  call  that  child?  I 
hain't  heerd  it  spoke  of  save  an'  except  '  baby,'  sence 
ever  'twas  born.  I  s'pose  it's  got  to  hev  some  handle 
to't,  ha'n't  it?" 


198  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  now,  there!"  said  Kerenhappuch,  heaving 
a  long  and  quavering  sigh — "there's  Bezy  agin! 
He's  most  too  cur 'us  to  live.  I  wanted  he  should  give 
the  child  a  real  good  Scripter  name,  sech  as  mine  an' 
his'n  is.  It  seems  as  though  it  give  a  child  a  kind  of 
a  pious  start  in  this  world  to  call  it  out  o'  Scripter. 
But  he's  jest  as  sot !  I  don'  know's  you  know  'twas 
so,  but  so  it  was  :  he  made  a  reg'lar  idle  out  of  'Mandy. 
He  a-most  said  his  prayers  to  her,  I  do  b'lieve.  She 
was  a  good  enough  gal,  for't  I  know ;  but  he  took  on 
real  foolish  about  her.  The  washing  was  did  for  her  ; 
an'  he  didn't  keep  but  two  cows,  because  he  wouldn't 
let  her  be  overdid." 

"Dew  tell!"  "Well,  I  never!"  "That  doos 
beat  all !  "  "  Sakes  alive  !  ' '  echoed  round  the  quilt, 
as  the  old  ladies  glared  over  their  spectacles,  and 
suspended  their  needles,  in  the  great  shock  of  learning 
that  a  man  could  consider  his  wife's  comfort  before 
the  fulness  of  his  pocket.  But  they  did  not  stop  the 
flow  of  Keery's  mild,  incessant  gabble.  She  went 
right  on :  — 

"Well,  she  wa'n't  real  strong,  kinder  weakly  from 
the  fust ;  an'  when  she  up  an'  died,  seemed  as  though 
Bezy  couldn't  stand  it  no  way  in  the  mortal  world. 
He  was  cut  down  dreadful :  the  consolations  of  religion 
wa'n't  of  no  account  to  him.  He  behaved  around  a 
sight  worse 'n  Job  in  the  Bible  did.  Why,  I  tell  ye  I 
was  skeert  for  a  spell ;  an'  then  I  up  and  I  took  him 
to  do,  I  tell  ye.  I  says,  says  I,  '  Bezaleel  Hills,'  says 
I,  '  be  ye  a  perfesser,  or  not?  I  don't  see  how  ye  can 
fly  inter  the  face  o'  Providence  this  way.  Don't  ye 
know  ye  made  a  idle  of  'Mandy? '  says  I,  '  so  the  Lord 
he  took  her  away  from  ye.  Ye  thought  a  heap  too 


AMANDAR.  199 

much  of  her.'  —  '  Git  out !  '  says  he,  a-snappin'  at  me 
so  quick  I  screeched  a  little  screech ;  an'  he  banged 
the  door,  an'  you  nor  I  nor  nobody  knows  where  under 
the  canopy  he  went  to  ;  but  he  never  come  in  till  dark 
night,  an'  his  eyes  was  as  red  as  a  rabbit's,  an'  there 
was  hay-seed  onto  his  head.  I  mistrust  he'd  ben  into 
the  mow  a-cryin' ,  but ' ' 

Miss  Polly,  who  saw  she  must  fetch  the  widow  back 
to  her  subject-matter  of  discourse,  interposed  again  :  — 

"  Well,  he  can't  call  the  boy  after  her,  seein'  'tain't 
a  girl ;  an'  her  t'other  name  was  Smith.  I  guess  he 
wouldn't  never  yoke  Smith  an'  Hills  up  together." 

A  faint  smile  relaxed  the  severe  wrinkles  of  Keery's 
sallow  forehead.  "I  don't  suppose  ye  ever  would 
guess,  nor  nobody  else  neither ;  but  he  doos  act  like  all 
possessed  about  it.  He  says  —  and,  when  he  doos  say 
a  thing,  he  sticks  to't  like  shoemaker's  wax  —  that  he's 
a-goin'  to  call  that  poor  babe  Amandar." 

A  chorus  of  exclamations  again  went  round  the 
quilt.  Mrs.  Green,  in  the  very  act  of  snapping  the 
chalked  twine  that  marked  the  quilters'  pattern,  lifted 
her  head,  and  forgot  to  let  go  of  the  string. 

"For  mercy's  sakes  what  do  you  mean?"  she  said 
sharply.  "  Call  a  boy-babe  Amandy  ?  " 

"No,  it  ain't  Amandy;  but  it's  as  nigh  to't  as  ye 
can  turn  your  tongue  an'  not  say  it,  an'  ' 

' '  What  upon  the  face  of  the  yerth  do  ye  let  him  do 
it  for?  "  severely  inquired  Mrs.  Green. 

Keery's  eyes  opened  as  far  as  the  secretive  narrow 
lids  would  allow. 

' '  Let  him  ?  Hear  that !  I  want  to  know  ef  ye 
think  any  mortal  bein'  can  stop  Bezy  Hills  from  doin' 
what  he's  got  a  mind  to?  " 


200  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Or  any  other  man,"  purred  Miss  Polly,  who  had 
an  elderly  maiden's  contempt  for  the  sex. 

"They  ain't  all  jest  alike,"  dryly  remarked  Mrs. 
Green. 

A  look  of  intelligence  passed  round  the  table.  It 
was  well  known  in  Hampton  that  Mrs.  Green  was  the 
head  of  the  family ;  and,  instead  of  rejoicing  in  her 
supremacy  as  a  tribute  to  her  abused  sex  and  a  proph 
ecy  of  hope,  the  women  who  should  have  sympathized 
sniffed  at  her.  Such  is  human  nature. 

"  But  what  will  folks  say  when  the  child  is  presented 
for  baptism?  "  asked  the  deacon's  wife. 

"There  'tis  agin,"  wailed  Keery.  "  Bezy  don't 
b'lieve  in  infant- baptism.  He  says  the'  ain't  no  sech 
thing  told  about  in  the  Bible,  an'  he  don't  b'lieve  'twas 
ever  meant  for  folks  to  be  baptized  till  they  was  con 
verted  ;  an'  he  won't  never  have  it  done  to  the  babe 
no  way,  for  he's  got  a  conscience  about  it.  An'  I've 
talked  an'  talked  an'  talked  to  him  ;  an'  I  might  jest  as 
well  ha'  talked  to  the  side  o'  White  Mounting,  for  "  — 

"I'll  send  the  deacon  over  to  deal  with  him,"  said 
Mrs.  House,  to  whom  the  deacon  was  the  end  of  the 
law  ;  for  which  the  rest  of  her  sisters  secretly  sniffed  at 
her.  The  happy  medium  of  a  bland  indifference  was 
"  the  thing  "  as  to  marital  relations  in  Hampton. 

"  H'm  !  "  said  Miss  Polly.  "  I  don't  b'lieve  talk'll 
turn  him.  I've  seen  quite  a  few  men- folks,  bein'  as  I 
go  out  nursin'  by  spells  ;  an'  I've  seen  pretty  clear  that 
it  takes  science  to  manage  of  'em.  The  mortal !  I've 
seen  a  feller  go  boastin'  around  that  he  would  be  mas 
ter  in  his  own  house,  he  would  be  minded,  or  things 
would  crack  ;  an',  come  to  find  out,  he  was  jest  twisted 
round  his  wife's  finger,  like  a  hank  o'  darnin' -cotton, 


AMANDAR.  201 

all  the  time  he  was  bustin'  with  boastin'.  They're 
queer  creturs.  Like  enough,  now,  if  you  let  Bezaleel 
alone,  an'  keep  a-peggin'  at  the  boy  how't  he's  got  a 
girl's  name  tacked  onto  him,  why,  he'll  git  sick  on't 
himself  when  he  comes  to  years,  an'  drop  it." 

"  Well,  I  declare  for't !  I  never  thought  o'  that," 
responded  the  astonished  widow  ;  and,  just  then  being 
called  to  help  roll  the  quilt,  she  had  no  chance  to  say 
any  more  on  the  matter ;  for  the  minister's  wife  came 
in,  and  the  state  of  religion  in  the  village  became  the 
topic  of  conversation  in  deference  to  her  official  posi 
tion. 

But  the  stubborn  fact  remained,  that  Bezy  Hills 
would  call  his  boy  Amandar,  —  a  name  he  had,  indeed, 
invented,  after  much  study,  and  a  dull  sort  of  sense 
that  few,  if  any,  feminine  names  ended  in  "r,"  and 
several  masculine  ones  had  that  termination.  Possibly 
Keery  might  have  taken  the  counsel  of  the  serpent 
from  Polly  Paine,  but  she  did  not  live  to  try  the  force 
of  iteration.  Before  Amaudar  was  five  years  old,  his 
aunt  died,  and  her  place  in  the  family  was  taken  by  a 
fat  and  kindly  woman,  whose  husband  had  run  away 
and  left  her,  in  a  drunken  fit,  and  never  been  heard  of 
since.  Indeed,  Sally  Swett  took  no  pains  to  discover 
him.  She  did  not  wish  to  marry  again  ;  and  in  taking 
care  of  Bezaleel' s  house,  and  bringing  up  little  'Mandy, 
she  was  happy  as  she  never  had  been  during  her  mar 
ried  life,  the  only  skeleton  in  her  closet  being  the  fear 
that  Apollos  might  yet  appear  on  the  stage,  and  deprive 
her  of  a  home. 

'Mandy  grew  up,  as  most  country  children  grow, 
sunburned,  ragged,  dirty,  but  by  no  means  neglected  ; 
for  the  motherly  heart  of  "Aunt  Sally,"  never  com- 


202  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

forted  with  offspring  of  her  own,  went  out  to  the 
motherless  boy,  for  whom  she  delighted  to  make  and 
mend,  to  concoct  pies,  turnovers,  gingerbread,  and 
fantastic  doughnuts.  She  let  him  make  endless  work 
for  her  in  the  kitchen,  with  his  pans  of  molasses  candy, 
kettles  of  sirup  to  sugar  off,  pots  of  evil-smelling 
ointment  for  his  little  boots,  and  roastings  of  chestnuts 
that  would  explode,  and  fly  in  savory  fragments  all  over 
the  kitchen-floor.  But,  for  all  Sally's  indulgence,  she 
did  not  wean  Amandar  from  his  father :  no  temptation 
of  food  or  fun  could  keep  him  from  the  lonely  man's 
side.  Together  they  went  to  salt  the  sheep,  to  mend 
the  rail  fences,  to  sow  rye,  or  plant  corn  and  potatoes  ; 
and  it  was  Bezy's  great  solace  to  tell  "  'Mandy,"  as 
he  got  to  call  his  boy,  all  about  his  dead  mother.  The 
squirrel- cups,  lifting  soft  gray  buds  and  blooms  of 
pink  and  purple  from  the  dead  leaves,  reminded  him 
how  glad  she  always  was  to  find  them,  and  how  her 
eyes  sparkled  when  he  brought  them  in  first :  he 
planted  them  all  about  her  low  grave  on  the  hillside, 
and  'Mandy  helped  him.  Not  a  thing  was  done  about 
the  farm  without  some  reference  to  the  past. 

' '  Yer  ma  liked  them  peach-blow  potaters  first  best : 
I  guess  we'll  set  'em  agin  this  year."  Or,  "Mother 
she  took  to  rye  bread  amazin',  ef  'twas  new  rye  :  we'll 
sow  some  onto  that  hill  lot." 

Great  white-rose  bushes  were  trained  each  year 
higher  and  higher  by  the  door,  because  the  dear  dead 
wife  had  loved  them  ;  and,  by  the  time  'Mandy  was 
fifteen,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  whole  farm  was  linked 
to  such  tender  associations  of  his  unknown  mother, 
and  her  memory  made  so  living  to  him  by  the  iterations 
of  his  father's  love  and  loss,  that  it  would  scarcely 


AMANDAR.  203 

have  startled  him  to  see  the  delicate  face  waiting  at 
the  window,  or  hear  the  young  fresh  voice  call  from 
his  door. 

Perhaps  he  loved  her  all  the  more  from  the  fact  that 
he  had  borne  her  name  at  the  expense  of  much  tribula 
tion  ;  for,  from  the  moment  he  began  to  attend  the 
district  school,  that  name  had  been  the  scorn  and  jest 
of  all  the  other  boys.  Day  after  day  he  came  home, 
his  lips  set  with  indignation,  and  his  eyes  red  with 
tears  ;  but  never  could  his  father  get  a  word  of  com 
plaint  out  of  him,  except,  "  Them  boys  plague  me." 

The  child,  young  as  he  was,  felt  that  his  father 
would  be  even  more  hurt  than  he  to  find  this  dear 
memorial  name  had  become  only  occasion  of  anger  and 
shame  to  the  son  who  bore  it. 

But  Sally  was  a  woman  ;  and,  finding  it  in  vain  to 
question  or  coax  'Mandy,  her  curiosity  was  fired  at 
once,  and,  by  various  feminine  arts  and  stratagems, 
she  succeeded  in  discovering  the  secret  from  some  of 
his  playfellows  ;  and  one  night,  when  'Mancly  was  safe 
asleep  up  stairs,  and  his  father  toasting  his  feet  by  the 
kitchen-fire,  preparatory  to  his  own  retirement,  she 
laid  down  her  knitting,  and  blandly  plunged  into  the 
middle  of  things  at  once. 

"  I've  got  to  the  bottom  of  'Mandy's  red  eyes  now, 
I  tell  ye,  Square  Hills.  I  set  a  sight  by  that  youngster  ; 
an'  it's  took  me  aback  to  hev  him  come  home  every 
mortal  day  a-lookin'  mad,  and  sorry  too.  It's  them 
boys  to  the  school.  I  say  for't,  I  don't  want  to  fault 
Providence ;  but  I  do  wish  the  Lord  lied  kinder  con 
trived  some  way  to  carry  on  the  world  'thout  boys. 
They're  the  most  trouble  to  the  least  puppus  of  any 
thing  that  ever  was  created,  except,  mabbe,  Dutchmen 


204  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

an'  muskeeters  ;  but,  seein'  they  be  here,  the  matter  in 
hand  'pears  to  be  to  do  a  body's  darn'dest  to  sarcum- 
vent  'em,  as  you  may  say.  But  I'm  beat  el'  I  know 
what  to  do  about  these  here  boys.  They've  got  hold 
o'  'Mandy's  name,  it  'pears,  —  I  guess  'twas  writ  into 
his  speller,  —  an'  they're  a-plaguin'  of  him  to  pieces  ; 
callin'  of  him  'Miss  Hills,'  an'  'lovely  'Manda,'  an' 
a-askin'  of  him  ef  he's  a-makin'  a  quilt  aginst  his  wed- 
din',  an'  all  sorts  o'  talk  like  that,  an'  wuss,  if  wuss 
can  be.  The  little  feller  can't  thrash  'em,  he's  the 
smallest  of  the  hull  lot ;  an'  I've  figgered  on't  all  day, 
but  /  can't  do  nothin'  as  I  know  of :  so  I  thought  I'd 
tell  you  about  it,  for  I  vum  I'm  to  my  wits'  ends." 

A  look  of  keen  pain  flitted  across  Bezy  Hills' s  face 
as  Sally  prattled  on.  He  had  not  thought  of  this  con 
tingency.  He  was  a  slow-minded  man,  possessed  all 
these  years  by  one  dominant  idea,  and  every  thing  else 
fell  into  the  background.  His  daily  duties  had  been 
done  because  they  must  be  :  his  sole  enjoyment  had 
been  thinking  of  his  wife,  and  talking  about  her  to  his 
boy.  He  had  given  him  her  name,  as  nearly  as  he 
could,  in  order  to  make  her  near  to  the  child  who  had 
never  seen  her ;  and  the  appellation  was  sacred  to  him. 
He  had  never  thought  it  could  be  made  the  jest  and 
weapon  of  rough  boys,  or  a  torment,  instead  of  a  pride, 
to  'Mandy. 

Perhaps  if  Amanda  had  lived,  become  the  mother 
of  other  children,  grown  old  and  sad  with  hard  work 
and  the  hard  life  of  a  farmer's  wife,  this  devotion  of 
her  husband  would  not  have  endured  the  wear  and  tear 
of  so  many  years.  Probably  he  would  have  lost  his 
patience  with  her  headaches  and  groans,  and  learned 
the  grim  silence  or  the  bitter  speech  that  love  never 


AMANDAR.  205 

knows.  He  might  have  become  not  only  indifferent, 
but  unkind  :  men  do.  But  the  sweet  memory  of  their 
brief  love  and  companionship  became  ideal  because  it 
was  a  memory,  and  he  clung  to  it  with  a  persistence 
reality  never  knows  or  inspires.  Had  she  died  at 
forty,  and  left  him  with  two  or  three  children  and  ten 
cows,  he  would  have  looked  about  him  in  a  very  few 
months  to  find  some  one  who  should  fill  her  place  :  as 
it  was,  his  days  went  on  unsolaced  in  that  way  ;  and  he 
was  as  much  an  Amandian  as  he  was  a  Christian, 
perhaps  more  so. 

But  as  he  sat  by  the  fire  to-night  in  silence,  —  for  he 
made  no  answer  to  Sally,  and  she  was  too  used  to  his 
silences,  and  cared  too  little  for  him,  to  resent  them,  — 
his  startled  soul  was  forced  to  own  that  he  had  not 
been  judicious  or  considerate  in  making  his  boy  wear 
his  mother's  name,  dear  and  sacred  as  it  was. 

Nothing  could  be  done  about  it  now.  The  name  was 
given,  and  he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  for  him  to 
interfere  in  the  affair  would  only  exasperate  it :  perhaps 
he  had  better  not  speak  of  it  even  to  'Mandy. 

Rising,  with  a  long  sigh,  at  length  he  took  the  tallow 
candle,  and  stole  up  the  stair  into  his  boy's  room,  to 
take  a  good-night  look. 

The  child  lay  with  his  cheek  on  one  hand,  the  dark 
lashes,  so  like  his  mother's,  fallen  on  to  the  rose-tinted 
cheek,  and  the  red  lips  just  parted  with  an  even  breath 
of  young  health :  but  the  lashes  were  still  wet ;  and 
while  his  father  gazed  at  him  fondly,  thinking  how  like 
his  mother  he  looked  in  that  rest  and  position,  a  low 
sob,  like  the  last  swell  of  a  storm,  shook  the  boy's 
chest,  and  a  look  of  anger  swept  across  his  placid  fore 
head.  Bezy  Hills  was  grieved  to  the  heart.  Long  and 


206  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

late  he  pondered  what  he  should  do ;  and  even  in  his 
troubled  sleep,  when  at  last  it  came,  he  was  haunted 
by  '  Mandy 's  angry  face  and  tearful  eyes. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday  ;  and  as  it  was  good  sap 
weather,  —  weather  that  ' '  friz  by  night,  and  thew  by 
clay,"  as  Sally  said, —  'Mandy  went  up  to  the  sugar- 
camp  with  his  father  to  stay  till  Sunday  morning.  The 
hut  was  substantial ;  and  a  standing  bed-place,  laid 
thick  with  spruce-boughs  and  sheep-skins,  was  delight 
ful  hardship  to  the  boy.  He  stirred  the  kettles,  fetched 
sap  in  his  small  pail,  and  carried  a  milk-pan  of  snow 
from  a  hidden  drift  between  two  rocks  at  the  north 
foot  of  Black  Mountain,  in  which  to  cool  his  share  of 
sirup,  and  harden  it  to  wax,  —  delicious,  deleterious 
compound,  that  sticks  the  organs  of  speech  together, 
and  forbids  deglutition  to  the  strongest  jaw,  but  has 
withal,  the  flavor  of  wild  honey,  and  the  sweetness  of 
nectar  Olympus  never  knew. 

When  noon-mark  was  straightened  out  by  the  great 
gnomon  of  a  tulip-tree  on  the  turf-dial  where  the 
shanty  stood,  Bezy  set  some  apples  to  roast  before  the 
fire,  placed  his  tin  pot  of  coffee  on  the  ashes,  and 
toasted  some  thick  slices  of  cheese  at  the  coals  to  eat 
with  their  rye  bread  and  doughnuts,  —  a  meal  fit  for 
any  king,  'Mandy  thought,  its  only  objection  being  that 
a  hearty  dinner  did  somewhat  limit  the  possibilities  of 
eating  maple-wax  ;  but  the  keen  air  edged  his  appetite, 
and  demanded  solids  as  well  as  sweets. 

While  he  was  munching  his  last  doughnut,  the  silence 
of  the  repast  was  suddenly  broken  by  his  father. 

"  'Mandy,"  said  he,  "  I've  heerd  tell  that  the  boys 
to  school  plague  ye  a  heap  about  your  given  name  ? ' ' 

'Mandy  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  yellow  hair. 


AMANDAR.  207 

"They  do  plague  some,  pa,"  he  said  honestly,  though 
choking  a  little,  perhaps  from  the  over-dry  doughnut. 

"Well,  I've  figgered  on't  some,  an'  I  don't  see  but 
what  ye '11  hev  to  stan'  it  for  a  spell.  Ye  ain't  big 
enough  to  thrash  'em,  nor  to  knock  'em  over :  when 
you  be,  I  s'pose  you  will." 

"  You  bet !  "  exclaimed  the  eight-year-old  hero. 

"  But  meantime,  don't  ye  fret  about  it  no  more'n  ye 
can  help.  Ye've  got  mother's  name  as  near  as  I  could 
fix  it ;  an'  you  an'  me  think  a  sight  o'  mother,  don't 
we?" 

'Mandy  nodded :  his  mouth  was  still  full,  and  pathos 
was  not  his  forte. 

"Ye  see,  ef  ye'd  ben  a  little  gal,  why,  'twould  hev 
come  right ;  but  ye  wa'n't,  an'  I  don't  know  as  I 
wanted  for  ye  to  be." 

"  /didn't,"  shouted  the  indignant  boy. 

"  But  for  all,  I  wanted  ye  to  hev  mother's  name. 
She  was  the  best  an'  the  beautifulest  cretur  ever  was, 
an'  them  boys  hain't  any  one  on  'em  got  no  sech  a 
mother.  I  expect  if  they  hed,  they'd  be  proper  glad  to 
hev  her  given  name  tacked  to  'em." 

"Hullo!  there's  a  'chuck!"  shouted  'Mandy;  and 
off  he  went,  seizing  a  stake,  and  knocking  over  the 
apples,  to  wage  war  with  a  sober  old  woodchuck  that 
had  come  out  to  inspect  the  savory  odors  in  his  usually 
quiet  haunts. 

Bezy  sighed,  but  the  sugar  needed  stirring :  and 
when  'Mandy  came  back  from  the  chase,  disgusted 
that  the  froward  beast  would  not  stop  to  be  killed,  his 
father  said  no  more  to  him  about  his  school  troubles  ; 
but  what  he  had  said  dwelt  long  in  the  child's  mind, 
and  had  its  effect. 


208  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

The  old  saying,  that  ' '  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  is 
the  seed  of  the  Church,"  is  as  applicable  to  other  affec 
tions  as  to  religion.  The  more  the  boys  reviled  and 
laughed  at  'Maudy  for  wearing  his  mother's  name,  the 
more  closely  he  became  attached  to  it ;  and  when  time 
came  to  his  aid  with  its  slow  security,  and  his  thews 
and  sinews  were  both  strong  and  hard  with  his  sturdy 
life  and  free  growth,  the  boys  of  Hampton  began  to 
respect  the  "dynamic  reasons  of  larger  bones,"  and 
be  careful  how  they  roused  the  wrath  they  found  latent 
under  Amandar's  kindly,  handsome  visage. 

About  the  time  he  was  seventeen  years  old,  there 
came  to  the  village  a  distant  relative  of  Bezaleel  Hills, 
of  the  same  surname.  Samuel  Hills  had  lived  hitherto 
by  the  seaside ;  but  malaria,  creeping  slowly  up  the 
Connecticut  coast,  had  laid  its  chilly,  withering  finger 
on  him  after  he  was  fifty  years  old,  and  driven  him 
northward  into  the  pure  mountain  air  which  his  father 
had  left,  a  long  time  since,  to  settle  on  a  fat  farm  near 
Guilford.  He  exchanged  these  green  acres  now  for  as 
many  of  mountain  pasture  on  the  outskirts  of  Hampton  ; 
and,  under  the  care  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  the  old 
brown  house  put  on  a  new  aspect.  Morning-glories 
twined  over  the  windows,  the  white-rose  trees  were 
pruned  and  trained,  and  a  -w  posy  bed"  by  the  south 
door  made  the  yard  gay  and  fragrant. 

It  was  not  strange  that  Samuel  Hills's  daughter 
should  be  named  Amanda,  though  to  her  relatives  it 
seemed  a  peculiar  and  startling  coincidence.  Amanda 
was  as  common  in  those  days  as  Susz'e,  Alh'e,  Salh'e, 
or  any  other  absurdity  ending  in  ie  is  in  these  ;  and 
to  the  cultivated  ear  there  is  a  far  greater  decency  in 
the  whole  of  any  feminine  appellative  than  in  the 


AMANDAR.  209 

nicknames  that  should  be  kept  for  household  usage  and 
private  fondness.  Amanda  wore  her  grandmother's 
name,  who  received  it  from  her  mother.  And  so  little 
did  she  know  of  her  relatives,  that,  till  she  eame  to 
Hampton,  she  was  all  unaware  of  having  a  distant 
cousin  of  almost  her  own  name.  It  was  a  passport 
at  once  to  the  good  graces  of  Bezaleel  and  his  son 
that  this  bright,  pretty  young  girl  should  so  recall  the 
wife  and  mother  they  both  idolized.  Amandar,  just 
budding  into  manhood,  was  carried  away  captive  at 
once.  And  Amanda,  who  was  his  own  age,  rather 
looked  down  upon  him  in  point  of  years,  because  a 
woman  is  always  so  much  older  than  a  man,  whatever 
equality  of  age  may  be  shared  by  the  two. 

Yet  she  was  by  no  means  unwilling  to  add  another 
trophy  to  those  already  dangling  at  her  belt ;  and  she 
smiled,  dimpled,  coquetted,  till  the  handsome,  awkward 
boy,  who  took  the  serious  side  of  the  matter,  felt  like 
a  bewitched  creature,  and  wore  his  chains  with  a  silent 
joy,  not  yet  knowing  that  they  were  chains. 

But,  while  he  was  falling  fathoms  deep  in  love  with 
Amanda,  other'  youths  in  Hampton  discovered  how 
pleasant  it  was  to  be  welcomed  in  the  cheery  brown 
house  by  such  sparkling  eyes  and  red  lips  ;  and  she 
had  a  welcome  for  all. 

Amandar  began  to  feel  pangs  of  jealous  fury,  to 
lose  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his  appetite  by  day.  Being, 
however,  a  practical  youth,  instead  of  wasting  his  time 
in  sighs  and  philandering,  he  worked  harder  than  ever, 
and  "laid  about  him,"  as  Robinson  Crusoe  says,  to 
discover  how  he  should  be  soonest  able  to  marry,  and 
so  carry  his  idol  off  from  all  competitors. 

The  farm  was  his  father's :  he  could  not  ask  him  to 


210  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

give  it  up ;  nor  would  its  sterile  acres  ever  furnish  more 
than  the  barest  support  to  their  family  as  it  was. 
Amandar's  desire  was  to  go  into  some  sort  of  business, 
and  make  money  more  rapidly ;  and  to  this  end  he  at 
last  persuaded  Bezy  to  let  him  go  to  work  in  the  iron- 
furnace  at  Hampton  Falls,  —  a  little  offshoot  of  Hamp 
ton,  on  the  Black  River,  —  only  two  miles  from  Bezy 
Hills 's  farm. 

He  worked  in  the  furnace  four  years  ;  his  intelligence 
and  strength  bringing  gradual  promotion,  and  his  wages 
accumulating  in  the  Rutland  savings  bank.  But  he 
had  not  the  faith  or  the  patience  (whichever  it  was)  of 
Jacob  ;  for  the  time  he  served  for  his  Rachel  seemed 
interminable,  and  was  rendered  even  more  tantalizing 
by  that  young  woman's  persistent  coquetry  with  other 
men .  It  was  true  she  did  not  engage  herself  to  any  of 
them :  there  were  too  many  delights  in  having  a  train 
of  lovers  for  Amanda  to  sacrifice  all  to  one.  But  no 
man  likes  to  have  his  own  idol  set  up  for  public  wor 
ship  ;  and  'Mandy  was  too  young  and  too  dreadfully  in 
earnest  to  be  philosophical  about  the  matter. 

It  happened  soon  after  he  was  twenty-one  that  his 
brooding  jealousy  exploded,  and  brought  his  affairs  to 
a  crisis.  He  had  been  away  from  home  on  some  affair 
of  the  furnace ;  for  he  had  now  advanced  so  far  as  to 
have  all  the  outside  business  in  his  hands,  and  he  was 
mounted  on  top  of  the  lumbering  ' '  stage ' '  that  for  a 
few  miles  carried  passengers  between  the  railroad 
station  and  Hampton  Falls.  Before  him,  on  either 
side  of  the  driver  (who  happened  to  be  a  new  man  on 
the  line,  and  quite  ignorant  of  Hampton  people),  sat 
two  young  men  of  that  class  whom  the  English  call 
"bagmen,"  and  the  Americans  "drummers."  Their 


AMANDAR.  211 

conversation  was  not  peculiarly  interesting  at  first ; 
but,  as  Hampton  steeple  came  in  sight,  one  said  to  the 
other,  — 

"  What  takes  you  to  this  little  hole,  Harris?  " 

"I'm  going  to  see  'Mandy  Hills,"  answered  the 
other,  with  a  smirk  of  such  meaning  that  Amandar's 
blood  boiled. 

"  After  a  girl,  eh?     I  thought  you  was  drumminV 

Harris  chuckled,  and  the  other  went  on.  "Pretty, 
is  she?" 

"  You  bet !  "  replied  the  indiscreet  youth,  with  still 
another  laugh. 

"What  style?" 

"Why,  Smith,  I  don't  know:  photographs  haven't 
been    exchanged   yet ;    that  is  "  —  chuckling  again  — 
"  no  colored  ones." 

"Just  like  all  country  girls,  I  dare  say, — hair 
straight  as  a  candle,  and  nose  the  length  of  your  arm." 

"Not  a  bit.  Hair  curly,  and  nose  a  little  turned 
up." 

Here  Harris  laughed  uproariously ;  and  Amandar 
clinched  his  fist,  and  straightened  out  his  arm  danger 
ously  near  the  young  man's  head. 

"  Well,  good  luck  to  you  !  Hope  she  won't  put  on 
airs,  and  mitten  you,  to  wind  up." 

"Not  she,"  laughed  Harris,  as  if  the  idea  was  the 
most  exquisite  of  jokes.  "  She  ain't  that  kind.  She'll 
fall  into  my  mouth  quick  as  ever  I  open  it,  you  bet 
your  head." 

The  words  had  scarce  left  his  lips  when  Amandar's 
hand  clutched  his  collar,  and  he  was  flung  off  the  seat 
just  as  the  stage  drew  up  at  the  Hampton  tavern  ;  and 
our  hero,  jumping  down  after  him,  administered  a 


212  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

sound  pommelling  to  the  surprised  drummer  before 
interfering  spectators  could  pull  him  off. 

The  bruised  and  bleeding  youth  was  rescued,  done 
up  in  vinegar  and  brown  paper,  and  put  to  bed  up 
stairs,  and  a  justice  of  the  peace  brought  immediately 
to  deal  with  the  assailant,  who,  having  washed  his 
hands  at  the  pump,  sat  down  and  waited  for  arrest  as 
calmly  as  if  assault  and  battery  were  his  profession. 

However,  the  battered  party  could  not  appear  against 
him  that  day,  and  there  was  no  place  to  shut  him  up : 
so  he  gave  bail,  went  to  the  office  for  an  hour,  and 
thence  walked  home  to  tea. 

Hampton,  of  course,  was  all  alive  with  the  affair 
before  morning  ;  and  early  next  day  Amandar  appeared 
before  the  justice,  with  his  disfigured  adversary,  who 
had  his  temple  covered  with  wet  brown  paper,  and 
diffused  a  mingled  odor  of  cider-vinegar  and  New-Eng 
land  rum  through  the  assembly  that  crammed  the  little 
court-room.  Amandar  could  not  bring  himself  to  con 
fess  the  motive  for  his  apparently  unprovoked  assault : 
so  he  submitted  to  the  heavy  fine  imposed,  and  private 
ly  sought  occasion  to  apologize  to  Harris,  or  rather  to 
explain.  The  young  man  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter, 
all  the  more  uncontrollable  that  Amandar' s  face  blazed 
all  over  at  this  unseemly  levity,  till  Harris  at  last 
caught  breath. 

u  My  dear  fellow,  I  never  saw  Miss  Hills  in  my  life, 
nor  ever  knew  there  was  such  a  person  :  but  you  and  I 
have  corresponded  about  that  pig-iron,  though  of  course 
as  I  only  signed  my  letter  Fowle,  Norris,  and  Co.,  per 
H.,  you  could  not  know  my  name;  but  I  had  seen 
yours,  and  been  rather  —  beg  pardon  —  rather  amused 
at  it :  so  when  Jack  began  to  question  me  (which  he  is 


AMANDAR.  213 

mighty  apt  to  do) ,  I  thought  I'd  blind  him,  and  an 
swered  as  I  did.  Particulars  were  made  to  order :  I 
don't  see  how  they  came  to  fit.  Honest,  now,  did 
they?" 

"  Well,  her  hair  does  curl  some,"  awkwardly  admit 
ted  Amandar,  unconscious  of  nightly  papering  and 
pinching,  "  and  I  didn't  know  but  you'd  call  her  nose 
pug.  I  don't." 

Harris  could  not  help  another  laugh  ;  and  Amandar 
almost  said,  "Confound  my  name!"  but,  just  as  his 
lips  opened,  loyalty  and  love  for  the  dead  mother  closed 
them  ;  and  he  only  said,  "Well,  "I  was  a  fool,  and  I 
own  it." 

"  You  can't  say  no  fairer  than  that,  old  fellow. 
Shake  hands  on  it,  will  you?  " 

And  Amandar  and  Harris  "  made  up,"  as  children 
say  ;  but  the  unlucky  name  had  not  yet  done  its  work. 
Somebody  overheard  this  conversation,  or  "Jack," 
sharing  in  the  explanation,  betrayed  it  with  his  easy 
tongue  ;  for  in  twenty-four  hours  it  had  reached  Aman 
da,  and  made  her  furious.  New  England,  as  a  rule, 
does  not  take  kindly  to  sentiment,  even  of  the  chival- 
ric  sort ;  and  Hampton  people  were  only  too  glad  to 
get  a  laugh  on  Amandar,  who  had  always,  as  their 
phrase  went,  ' '  kept  himself  to  himself. ' '  And  Aman 
da  well  knew  she  would  be  teased  and  laughed  at  un 
mercifully.  But  her  namesake,  unconscious  of  her 
wrath,  and  feeling  that  the  time  had  come  when  he  had 
courage  to  ask  her,  since  the  blow  he  struck  for  her 
sake  seemed  to  have  roused  his  dormant  manhood,  and 
proved  to  himself  that  he  had  at  last  the  daring  to 

"Put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  gain  or  lose  it  all," 

betook  himself  to  the  hill  farm  that  very  night. 


214  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

He  was  too  absorbed  in  his  purpose  to  understand 
Amanda's  silence  and  the  flash  of  her  eyes ;  but  the 
moment  they  were  alone,  in  good  set  terms  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him. 

"I  guess  not!"  she  retorted  bitterly.  "I  don' 
know  how  you  ask.  Hain't  you  made  my  name  a  by 
word  and  a  hissin'  already  down  to  the  village?  I've 
heerd,  sir,  about  your  knockin'  down  that  city  feller ; 
and  I  don't  think  it's  no  great  recommend  to  a  man  to 
have  him  ready  to  quarrel  for  a  breath,  as  you  may 
say." 

"But,  'Mandy,"  gasped  the  astonished  suitor,  "I 
couldn't  set  such  store  by  you  as  I  do,  and  hear  a  man 
speak  light  of  you  that  way. ' ' 

"  Then  stop  a-settin'  store  by  me,  's  all  I've  got  to 
say." 

"I  can't  do  it,  I  can't:  I'd  as  lief  root  out  twitch- 
grass  out  o'  a  ten-acre  lot.  I  can't  no  more  stop  likin' 
of  ye'n  I  can  stop  breathin'." 

"Well,  I  don'  know's  that's  my  blame,"  retorted 
Amanda,  with  genuine  scorn. 

It  seemed  to  her  this  man  was  a  weak  fool :  a  Scy 
thian  wooer,  who  would  have  knocked  her  down  and 
carried  her  away  across  his  saddle,  would  have  com 
manded  her  respect  much  more.  Amandar  was  far  too 
much  in  love  to  perceive  the  trait  in  his  charmer's  char 
acter  which  would  have  made  his  marriage  with  her 
emphatically  k '  the  curse  of  a  granted  prayer. ' '  He 
could  not  yet  take  no  for  an  answer :  his  misery  and 
his  passion  made  him  abject.  He  went  on,  "Maybe 
I've  hurried  up  matters  too  much  ;  try  and  think  on't, 
Amandy.  I'll  wait ;  I  can  wait  —  I'd  wait  seven  year, 
like  the  man  in  the  Bible,  if  so  be  you'd  take  me  to  the 
end  on't,  as  he  was  took." 


AMANDAR.  215 

There  is  a  curious  provision  of  Providence  in  the 
nature  of  girls  who  are  not  sophisticated  by  life  or 
education,  which  makes  a  man  whom  they  do  not  love, 
but  who  loves  them,  actually  hateful  and  disgusting 
the  moment  he  betrays  his  devotion.  It  seemed  to 
Amanda  that  her  lover  was  intolerable  ;  she  would  have 
liked  to  drive  him  out  of  the  house  ;  her  whole  nature 
rose  up  in  an  instinctive  revolt  against  him  ;  she  shud 
dered  inwardly  at  the  idea  of  his  presence  continually 
before  her,  and  her  wrath  found  words. 

"Hain't  you  got  eyes,  Amandar  Hills?"  she  said 
with  cold  fury.  "Don't  you  see  I  mean  no  when  I 
say  no?  Let  alone  that  I  wouldn't  marry  you  ef  you 
was  the  last  created  critter  of  the  masculine  sect  in  the 
hull  universe,  I  wouldn't  never  marry  a  man  that  I 
set  by  like  all  possessed  ef  he  hed  a  girl's  name :  so 
there  now  ! ' ' 

This  was  brutal,  but  convincing.  Amandar's  head 
dropped  on  his  breast.  He  picked  up  his  hat,  and  loi 
tered  out  of  the  door,  feeling  strangely  weak  and 
uncertain,  yet  withal  a  little  indignant,  from  an  odd 
consciousness  that  his  mother's  memory  had  not  been 
respected.  He  was  not  given  to  analyzing  his  sensa 
tions.  He  could  feel,  but  he  could  not  "  peep  and  bota 
nize  ' '  in  his  own  soul :  he  could  only  cast  a  wistful 
glance  at  the  green  flower-set  mound  in  the  graveyard 
as  he  went  by,  and  send  a  tender  thought  to  the  memo 
ry  that  was  so  far  the  only  religion  he  possessed,  but, 
like  all  human  religions,  had  no  power  to  heal  the  hurt 
within  him. 

It  happened  that  Sally  had  been  at  the  hillside  farm 
that  evening  to  return  some  yeast  borrowed  in  an  emer 
gency  ;  and  not  finding  Amanda's  mother  in  the  kitch- 


216  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

en,  and  hearing  voices  in  the  front-room,  she  naturally 
went  to  the  door  to  see  if  Mrs.  Hills  was  there,  and  in 
the  little  entry  her  steps  were  arrested  by  the  pleading 
sound  of  her  boy's  voice.  She  loved  Amandar  little 
less  than  if  he  had  been  her  own  child  ;  and  her  faith 
ful  old  heart  sank  as  she  gathered  the  sense  of  his  low, 
eager  words.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  go  away  :  she 
had  not  been  educated  into  that  sense  of  honor,  which 
is  not  a  native  trait  of  women  ;  and  her  blood  boiled  as 
she  heard  Amanda's  cruel  words,  so  distinctly  and 
curtly  uttered  that  they  were  like  so  many  blows.  In 
stinct  taught  her  not  to  follow  the  rejected  lover,  and 
offer  him  comfort :  she  only  set  down  her  yeast-pitcher 
and  left  the  house,  feeling  that  she  could  not  restrain 
her  tongue  if  she  met  Amanda  then  and  there. 

Poor  old  Sally  !  Amandar  writhed  and  groaned  and 
tossed  all  night  in  purely  self-centred  misery  ;  but  she, 
in  the  next  chamber,  sighed  and  woke  also.  Tears  of 
deep  pity  and  grief  stole  from  her  dim  eyes,  and  wet 
her  sallow,  wrinkled  cheeks  with  the  most  unselfish  of 
all  suffering  ;  yet  the  pathos  and  the  picturesqueness  of 
the  situation  all  lay  with  him,  for  is  not  a  despairing 
lover  by  far  a  finer  figure  than  a  sympathizing  old 
woman  ? 

Yet  could  we  but  look  at  the  pair,  having  our  sight 
purged  by  some  diviner  euphrasy  than  conventional 
literature  or  romantic  poetry  supplies,  would  not  Sally 
appear  the  nobler  and  lovelier  of  the  sufferers  ?  How 
ever  that  may  be,  Amandar  never  knew  what  pure  tears 
were  shed  for  him  that  night,  or  what  honest  pangs 
tortured  poor  Sally  for  his  sake.  He  got  up  the  next 
morning  and  went  to  his  work  as  usual ;  but  the  spring 
of  his  life  was  broken,  its  interest  gone.  Nothing  from 


AMANDAR.  217 

within  could  help  him ;  nothing  without  offered  aid. 
He  set  himself  with  listless  quiet  to  endure  :  that  alone 
was  left  to  him,  —  the  resource  of  a  dumb  animal,  the 
vis  inertia  of  the  tree  that  lies  where  it  falls.  If  help 
was  ever  to  come,  it  must  seek  him  and  save  him  with 
out  his  will  or  wish.  His  father  looked  at  him  with 
sad  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  Sally  cooked  every  dainty 
dish  she  could  remember,  or  invent  from  her  small 
resource  of  material ;  but  all  was  alike  to  the  weary 
body  that  held  this  stricken  soul.  That  the  two  who 
idolized  and  attended  him  never  offered  tender  speech, 
gentle  caress,  loving  look  or  touch,  was  not  for  want 
of  love,  but  from  the  dreadful  reticence  that  underlies 
all  New-England  character,  and  forbids  it  to  blossom 
in  expression,  though,  like  some  abnormal  plant,  it  may 
bear  fruit  abundantly  in  deeds,  from  the  most  insignifi 
cant  or  unlovely  flowers. 

So  the  summer  went  on  drearily  enough.  The  routine 
of  seedtime  and  harvest,  old  as  the  world's  gray  ribs, 
recurrent  as  the  sad  story  of  life,  occupied  Bezaleel 
Hills  as  it  had  done  over  and  over  before :  into  many 
a  furrow  he  ploughed  useless  regrets  and  defeated 
hopes  ;  for  he  was  hardly  less  disappointed  than  his 
son,  though  the  bitterest  element  of  Amandar's  trou 
ble,  the  love  that  he  had  wasted,  was  not  a  part  of  his 
father's  pain.  Yet,  for  all  the  ache  of  the  sower,  the 
regardless  seed  absorbed  dews  of  night  and  summer 
showers,  softened,  sprouted,  burst  into  the  blade,  shot 
into  the  stalk,  swelled  into  the  heavy- freighted  ear,  with 
the  divine  sequences  of  nature  as  gladly  as  if  there 
were  no  humanity  in  the  atmosphere ;  also  the  fair 
pink  blooms  of  the  orchards  painted  the  knotted  old 
boughs,  wiled  the  bees  with  their  delicate  bitter  per-. 


218  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

fume  and  drop  of  limpid  honey,  faded,  fell,  gave  way 
to  small  green  spheres  rounding  daily  to  full-orbed 
fruit  that  lay  at  last  in  heaps  of  gold  and  crimson  on 
the  long,  scant  grass  below  ;  the  forests  feathered  into 
waving,  verdant  plumes,  darkened,  rioted  in  brilliance 
indescribable,  and  whirled  away  their  finery  on  the 
wild  autumnal  winds  :  but  there  was  no  parallel  growth 
or  loss  in  the  dull  sorrow  that  had  taken  hold  of  Aman- 
dar's  strong  nature.  Humanity  is  not  the  flower  of  an 
hour  or  a  season  :  it  takes  a  lifetime  for  development, 
a  long  tale  of  years  for  its  growth,  fruitage,  and  death. 
Its  harvests  are  sudden,  and  it  sleeps  long  ages  in  the 
dust  before  any  resurrection ;  but  then  comes  another 
and  eternal  up-springing,  a  bloom  that  knows  no  har 
vest,  —  a  perennial  spring. 

It  was  in  the  bitter  days  of  November  that  Sally 
heard  of  her  sister's  death  in  a  remote  village  of 
Maine.  Hepsy  was  her  only  living  relative,  and  the 
stringent  separation  of  poverty  had  kept  them  apart 
since  they  were  children.  Occasionally  a  letter  had 
passed  between  them ;  but  further  than  these  brief, 
clumsy,  ill-spelled  messages,  Sally  knew  nothing  of 
her  sister's  life  except  its  bare  circumstances.  She 
had  married  Sam  Tucker,  a  poor,  amiable,  "  shiftless  " 
creature,  half  farmer,  half  fisherman,  and  had  the  poor 
man's  blessing,  —  ten  children ;  but  six  of  these  lay 
buried  in  Fosdick  Island  graveyard,  three  had  been 
lost  in  a  boat  out  blue-fishing.  Sam  had  been  dead 
ten  years ;  and  there  was  left  of  all  the  tribe  only  the 
fifth  child,  Love,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  who  had  been  her 
mother's  sole  comfort  and  company  since  the  last 
bab}7  was  laid  beside  its  father. 

Hepsy  had  known  she  was  about  to  die,  and  with 


AMANDAR.  219 

much  pain  and  delay  penned  a  short  good-by  to  Sally, 
begging  her  to  find  some  place  for  LoVe  where  she 
could  earn  her  living,  and  be  near  her  aunt. 

"For  she's  a  kinder  cossit,  Sary ;  and  I  mistrust 
she'll  hanker  after  me  sum.  I  want  you  should  be 
muther  to  her  nigh  as  ken  be,  and  sorter  harten  of  her 
upp  when  she  taiks  on,  as  mabbe  she  will.  Poor 
cretur  !  I  hate  to  hev  to  leave  her  ;  but  I  hoap  the  Lord 
and  you'll  take  keer  on  her." 

This  letter  came  enclosed  in  one  from  a  neighbor, 
announcing  Mrs.  Tucker's  death ;  and  Sally,  with  red 
eyes  and  mild  snuffles,  put  it  into  Bezy's  hand  to  read. 

He  puzzled  through  it,  and  wiped  the  back  of  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  muttering  under  his  breath, 
"Darn  them  cobwebs!"  though  he  knew,  and  Sally 
knew,  that  no  spider  that  ever  was  laid  in  egg  was  the 
author  of  the  dimness  he  was  ashamed  to  own. 

"  Well,  Sally,  the'  ain't  but  one  thing  for  to  do  ;  an' 
that  is  for  you  to  go  to  the  island,  an'  fetch  the  poor 
gal  hum  with  ye.  Fetch  her  here,  I  say,  till  she  finds 
a  better  place.  She'll  be  dreadful  lonesome  an'  scary, 
to  begin  with :  you  must  get  her  used  to  folks  grad- 
ooal.  There's  plenty  room  in  this,  old  barrack,  an* 
enough  vittles  ;  an'  she's  welcome.  Nuf  said." 

So  Sally,  who  had  made  a  perfect  autocrat  of  Bezy 
of  late  years,  meekly  obeyed,  drew  out  her  small  sav 
ings  from  the  bank,  and  with  trembling  ignorance 
went  her  way,  managing  to  reach  Fosdick  Island 
safely,  and  in  a  week  returned  with  her  charge  to 
Hampton,  slipping  back  into  her  old  place  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  Love  was  a  great  surprise  to  the 
squire,  who  had  thought  of  her  as  a  lank,  frightened, 
homely  down-East  girl,  and  stared  in  amaze  at  the 


220  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

quiet,  sweet  face  that  smiled  up  at  him  so  modestly, 
the  trim,  pluni\3  figure,  the  exquisitely  ueat  dress,  and 
shining  hair. 

kil  swan!"  he  said  to  Amandar,  "she's  the  most 
like  one  of  them  blue  pidgins  of  any  thing  I  ever  see 
in  a  woman." 

But  Amandar  did  not  care. 

As  the  year  went  on,  a  new  sense  of  comfort  stole 
into  the  house.  Love  had  that  inborn  power  of  mak 
ing  any  place  she  inhabited  attractive  and  home-like, 
which  is  a  greater  gift  to  a  woman  than  any  artistic 
faculty.  She  brightened  up  the  dark  kitchen  with  gay 
patchwork  cushions  in  the  arm-chairs,  set  two  scarlet- 
flowered  geraniums  in  the  south  window,  which  she  had' 
fetched  from  her  old  home,  and  pinned  up  some  chintz 
curtains  to  the  windows,  relics  of  Sally's  former  house 
keeping  ;  then  she  scoured  up  the  old  pewter  platters 
to  silvery  brightness,  and  made  the  brass  tops  of  shovel 
and  tongs  radiant.  A  red  shawl  served  for  stand- 
cover,  and  a  few  books  always  lay  on  it.  The  kitchen 
looked  like  a  place  to  live  in,  not  a  mere  shelter 
and  feeding-trough ;  and  not  its  least  ornament  was 
Love's  calm,  sweet  face,  the  brown  eyes  shining  a  wel 
come  to  each  comer,  the  brown  hair  braided  and  pinned 
up  with  that  smooth  glitter  carefully  kept  hair  shows, 
and  the  white  apron,  cuffs,  and  collar  spotlessly  pure 
against  her  black  woollen  dress.  Her  very  face  ex 
pressed  the  atmosphere  that  she  seemed  to  dwell  in, 
and  to  spread  about  her  a  sense  of  peace,  composure, 
and  rest. 

She  reminded  Bezy  of  his  lost  wife  many  and  many 
a  time.  Her  eyes  were  like  Amanda's,  so  was  her 
shining  hair ;  and  though  Love's  health  and  plumpness 


AMANDAB.  221 

were  as  unlike  Amanda's  frail  delicacy  as  could  be. 
Bezy  did  not  place  any  stress  on  that :  he  thought  it 
merely  the  natural  distinction  between  the  girl  and  the 
young  mother.  At  any  rate,  she  was  like  his  'Mandy, 
almost  as  gentle  and  sweet ;  and  his  old  young  life 
came  back  to  him  like  a  lovely,  mournful  dream  as  he 
looked  at  Love  sitting  where  his  wife  had  sat  in  their 
brief  happiness,  flitting  in  and  out  at  little  household 
cares  just  as  she  did,  and  making  the  house  home 
again,  as  in  all  these  years  it  had  never  been.  And, 
as  the  days  went  on,  a  subtle  sense  of  comfort  and 
peace  stole,  even  against  his  will,  into  Amandar's 
heart.  He  scarce  ever  looked  at  Love,  or  spoke  to 
.her ;  but  he  could  not  help  hearing  his  father's  voice 
soften  when  he  said  "Lovey,"  nor  could  he  fail  to 
see  how  the  pucker  was  getting  smoothed  out  of  Sally's 
forehead,  or  ignore  the  fact  that  the  daily  meals  were 
better  cooked,  more  neatly  served,  more  savory  of 
smell,  in  every  way  more  appetizing,  than  before. 
A  man's  heart  and  his  stomach  are  said  to  be  inter 
changeable  terms.  I  would  not  so  malign  the  sterner 
sex  as  to  indorse  this  fact ;  yet  I  certainly  know  of 
more  than  one  instance  where  a  woman's  sole  tie  to  an 
unloving,  selfish,  cold  husband,  has  been  her  power  of 
ministering  deftly  to  his  chronic  dyspepsia.  I  am 
sure  that  I  have  seen  this  despised  faculty  avert 
divorce,  and  preserve  family  unity,  where  all  else  failed, 
and  love  had  never  been.  The  moral  of  which  is, 
young  ladies,  learn  to  cook  well. 

And  how  was  it  with  Lovey  ?  Dear  girl-reader,  how 
would  it  have  been  with  you,  if,  homeless,  almost 
friendless,  you  had  been  brought  into  the  daily  society 
of  a  youth  good-looking  enough,  well-to-do,  intelligent, 
and  the  victim  of  an  unfortunate  attachment? 


222  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Dear  little  Lovey  !  She  pitied  Amanclar  with  all  her 
sweet,  gentle  heart.  She  thought  Amanda  Hills  a 
cruel,  heartless  coquette  ;  which  was  rather  unjust  to 
'Mancly,  at  her  worst  a  mere  coarse,  commonplace  girl, 
not  at  all  the  being  Amandar  painted  her.  So  her 
beautiful  pity  worked  itself  out  in  gentle  deeds  :  it  was 
she  who  darned  the  youth's  stockings  with  such  an 
even  lattice  of  yarn,  so  smoothly  ended  or  begun  that 
his  foot  never  felt  the  new  fabric ;  probably  it  never 
would  have  troubled  him  if  she  had  put  on  flannel 
patches,  but  there  are  as  many  works  of  supereroga 
tion  in  love  as  in  the  Bomish  religion. 

She,  too,  saw  that  no  button  ever  missed  its  duty, 
no  string  was  ever  torn  off  or  knotted  on  any  of  his 
clothes.  She  brushed  his  Sunday  suit  every  Saturday, 
with  a  little  of  the  same  devotion  that  impelled  her 
prayers,  and  stitched  his  collars  with  a  tender  thought 
to  every  two  threads,  as  well  as  a  stitch  ;  and  hemming 
his  handkerchiefs  gave  her  a  more  exquisite  joy  than 
the  finest  Kensington  embroidery  ever  confers  on  its 
votaries. 

Yes,  Lovey  was  in  love  ;  in  love  after  the  genuine 
old  fashion  of  Eden,  when  there  was  but  one  man  for 
one  woman  ;  in  love  without  an  alloy  of  diamonds  or 
settlements,  trousseau,  or  lace  and  white  satin  ;  in  love 
in  that  divine,  almighty,  absorbing,  unselfish  way,  that 
counts  not  its  own  life  dear  unto  itself  in  comparison 
with  the  lightest  wish  or  want  of  the  beloved.  And 
Amandar,  feeling  the  sun  rise  on  him,  did  not  see  it ; 
growing  warm  and  light  of  heart  as  he  went  on  with 
his  back  to  the  east,  he  yet  wist  not  that  it  shone. 

But  spring  at  last  kissed  the  land :  the  brown  sad 
fields  softened  in  tint,  the  brooks  laughed,  the  winter 


AMANDAR.  223 

grain  sprung  up  afresh  on  hill  and  dale,  and  bluebirds 
ventured  to  call  out  their  small  encouragements  from 
leafless  trees.  Work  at  the  forge  was  dull,  and  Aman- 
dar  staid  at  home  to  help  his  father  plough.  The  first 
few  days  of  May  were  warm  even  to  sultriness  :  and 
holding  a  plough  on  the  hillside  in  the  blaze  of  noon 
proved  too  much  for  his  unaccustomed  head  ;  a  sudden 
ache  smote  him,  so  severe  that  he  had  to  stop  and 
sit  down  to  recover  from  the  shock,  which  almost 
amounted  to  sunstroke.  His  father  was  startled  at 
the  pale  face  and  blue  lips,  that  told  their  own  story, 
and  sent  him  home  at  once.  When  he  reached  the 
house,  Sally  and  Love  were  taking  in  the  wash  from 
the  lines  in  the  orchard  ;  and  Amandar  went  up  to  his 
room  without  seeing  them.  The  cool  shade  and  soft 
air  flowing  through  his  blinds  relieved  and  soothed  him  ; 
so  that  he  fell  asleep  at  once,  and  awoke  some  hours 
afterward  to  the  sound  of  voices.  The  two  women 
were  sitting  on  the  back  door-steps  ;  and  before  he 
was  really  conscious  of  where  he  was,  and  whose  voices 
he  heard,  Sally  said  to  Love,  — 

"  The  meat-man  told  me  a  piece  o'  news  to-day." 

Lovey  laughed  like  a  song-sparrow,  for  it  was  the 
joke  of  the  house  to  call  the  meat-man  Sally's  news 
paper. 

"  Well,  he  did  really,  this  time.  He  says  for  true 
that  Amandy  Hills  is  a-goin'  to  marry  old  Square 
Shores  down  to  Ludlow." 

The  listener  felt  a  dull  pang  in  his  heart ;  and  a 
thrill  of  sharp  surprise  followed,  to  feel  the  pang  ivas 
so  dull. 

"  Isn't  she  goin'  to  do  well?  "  asked  Love,  rather  as 
a  matter  of  course  than  for  any  deep  interest  in  the 
subject. 


224  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  I  don'  know's  she  is,  an'  I  don'  know  as 
she  is.  He's  got  means,  —  he's  got  a  sight  of  means, 
if  that's  all ;  an'  he  lives  into  a  two-story  yaller  brick 
house,  with  a  big  gardin,  and  a  picket- fence  all  round 
on't ;  but  he's  cur'us,  dark-complected,  an'  jest  as 
pernickity  as  an  old  maid,  and  meaner  —  my  land ! 
meaner'n  dirt.  If  she's  marryin'  on  him  for  mpney, 
she  won't  get  none  on't." 

"I  hope  she  won't,"  burst  out  Love  in  a  righteous 
indignation.  "I  think  anybody  that  marries  anybody 
for  money  ought  to  get  come  up  with  every  time." 

"  Highty-tighty  !  Why,  Lovey,  you  ain't  riled  none, 
be  ye?  Money's  like  fried  cakes,  real  handy  to  hev  in 
the  house,  now  I  tell  ye.  'F  I  was  a  gal  agin,  I'd 
keep  an  eye  out  to't,  you'd  better  believe,  when  folks 
come  a-foolin'  round  me.  'Tain't  to  be  sneezed  at." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  would  one  bit,  Aunt  Sally.  I 
know  you,  and  you  wouldn't  marry  a  man  for  his 
money  no  more'n  I  would." 

"Well,  ef  you  know  so  much,  child,  what  on  airth 
would  you  marry  a  man  for,  ef  I  may  be  so  bold  ?  ' ' 

Lovey 's  fair  sweet  face  colored  like  a  peach-blossom, 
from  soft  round  throat  to  shining  hair,  as  she  answered, 
"For  nothing  only  because  I  loved  him  so  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

"  My  land  !  seems  to  know  a  heap  about  it.  Well, 
'Mandy  ain't  that  sort :  she  wouldn't  hev  our  'Mandar 
jest  cos  he's  got  a  queer  name." 

"Aunt  Sally!  Is  that  what  makes  him  so  awful 
sober?" 

"Jest  exactly  that.  I  heerd  her  tellin'  of  him  my 
self,  accidental  like,  as  ye  may  say ;  an'  she  done  it  as 
though  she  knocked  him  down  with  a  stun,  and  kindei 


AMANDAR.  225 

liked  to.  I  tell  ye  I  never  heerd  a  woman  no  harder 
spoken  than  'Mandy  Hills  was,  in  this  mortal  world." 

"  O  Aunt  Sally,  how  hateful !  I  should  have  thought 
she'd  ha'  liked  him  all  the  better  for  thinkin'  so  much 
of  his  dead  mother.  I'm  sure  I  felt  just  like  cry  in' 
when  you  told  me  about  the  squire's  namin'  of  him 
after  the  one  he  set  such  store  by ;  seemed  as  though 
'twas  most  worth  while  to  die,  if  it  made  folks  think 
so  much  of  you." 

"Why,  how  you  talk,  child!  You  ain't  'dreadful 
way- wise  yet,  it's  plain  to  behold.  It's  a  sight  better 
to  hev  'em  set  by  ye  whilst  ye  live.  It  don't  do  Miss 
Hills  no  good  up  there  under  the  mulleins  an'  burdocks 
to  hev  the  square  allers  thinkin'  about  her,  and  mournin' 
after  her." 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  "  retorted  Lovey,  her  soft  voice 
thrilled  with  indignation.  "I  don't  believe  but  what 
she  knows  all  about  it,  and  is  sort  of  comforted  by  it. 
/She  ain't  up  there  in  the  forlorn  old  graveyard :  she's 
in  a  better  place,  and  I  know  she  likes  to  be  loved 
more'n  ever.  My  gracious  !  do  you  think  I  shouldn't 
know,  if  I  was  ever  so  dead,  that  anybody  I  set  my 
life  by  had  forgot  me,  and  taken  another  into  my 
place?" 

"  Well,  well,  well,  child,  don't  be  so  stirred  up.  I 
don't  know  nothin'  about  it,  nor  you  don't  nuther,  an' 
it's  time  to  put  the  tea  to  draw.  Fetch  up  the  butter, 
will  ye,  and  cut  the  bread?  "  And  Sally  walked  off  to 
her  work,  unable  to  cope  with  the  ardent  young  heart 
that  life  and  grief  had  not  yet  tamed  down  to  hard 
sense  and  practical  philosophy. 

But  there  was  another  heart,  still  young,  if  wounded, 
that  heard  and  responded,  in  the  chamber  overhead, 


226  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

where  Amandar  lay  in  the  cool  silence,  listening  — 
very  dishonorably  no  doubt  —  to  the  door-step  conver 
sation.  If  he  had  read  Shakspeare,  probably  he  would 
have  quoted  that  well-worn  passage  :  — 

"  Oh  !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets." 

As  it  was,  he  had  a  sense  of  comfort  and  peace  enter 
his  very  soul  from  the  genuine  and  tender  sympathy 
Love  bestowed  on  him.  There  was  a  woman,  then, 
who  not  only  did  not  despise  his  name,  but  could  love 
him  the  better  for  it,  —  a  heart  that  knew  what  ai)eloved 
memory  was,  and  admired  the  respect  in  which  the 
living  held  it. 

Yes,  Amandar  began  to  see  the  sun.  There  is  no 
creature  on  earth  so  consolable  as  man.  A  dog  will 
mourn  his  lost  master  to  the  death,  and  a  woman 
bewail  her  husband  till  she  rejoins  him ;  but  in  man 
there  lies  a  sublime  store  of  affection  that  must  ex 
pend  itself  on  somebody,  — generally  on  some  woman. 
Amandar  was  no  exception  to  this  great  compensatory 
rule.  He  had  resisted  it  longer  than  usual,  because  of 
a  certain  trait  in  his  nature,  —  a  tendency  to  monotony, 
—  which  he  inherited,  diminished  in  descent,  from  his 
father ;  but  now  resistance  fell,  like  the  walls  of  Jeri 
cho,  before  the  blast  of  a  breath.  The  queen  was 
dead  :  long  live  the  queen  !  He  began  from  that  hour 
to  recognize  and  cultivate  a  sort  of  healthy  hatred  of 
Amanda,  to  wonder  that  he  had  never  understood  her 
character  before,  and  to  draw  daily  the  most  odious  of 
comparisons  between  her  and  Lovey. 

In  short,  he  fell  manfully  in  love  again  ;  and,  before 
the  ploughed  land  was  well  harrowed  and  seeded,  the 


AMANDAR.  227 

new  passion  had  sprouted  so  well,  that  he  himself 
recognized  it,  and  began  to  wonder  if  it  would  be  suc 
cessful.  But  Lovey  was  timid,  shy,  and  evasive  as  a 
nestling  partridge.  It  was,  or  seemed,  many  a  long 
day  before  Amandar  could  detain  her  from  her  occupa 
tions  long  enough  to  tell  the  old  story  ;  and  when  one 
day,  with  masculine  will,  he  swept  the  clothes  off  the 
line  himself,  and  took  possession  of  the  small  schemer 
who  had  made  their  ingathering  an  excuse  to  avoid 
him,  it  was  a  matter  of  hours  to  persuade  her  that  he 
really  was  in  deep  earnest.  She  could  not  understand 
that  the  love  which  had  shipwrecked  him  was  a  thing 
of  the  past ;  and  a  new  passion,  as  genuine  as  the  first, 
had  taken  true  hold  of  him.  It  was  only  after  long 
argument  and  iterated  assurances,  that  Lovey,  moved 
no  doubt  by  the  conviction  so  earnestly  expressed,  that 
she  alone  of  all  women  could  have  availed  to  heal  his 
wound,  consented  to  believe  in  him,  and  revealed  her 
own  honest,  tender  heart,  with  a  gentle  shyness  that 
became  it  as  moss  does  a  rosebud. 

It  was  a  day  of  rejoicing  in  that  house  when  Aman 
dar  told  his  father  and  Sally  that  Love  had  consented 
to  be  his  wife.  Bezaleel  already  loved  her  as  a  daugh 
ter,  and  she  only  disputed  Sally's  heart  with  Amandar. 
And  as  for  the  lover,  he  was  happy :  in  this  case  it 
was  he  who  held  the  cheek  out,  and  Lovey  who  kissed 
it.  He  was  not  now  slave,  but  master  ;  and  the  natu 
ral  position  set  him  at  ease,  and  restored  the  self- 
respect  Amanda  had  from  the  beginning  trampled  on, 
and  at  last  outraged.  Before  the  harvest  came,  they 
were  married ;  and,  under  Love's  household  reign, 
peace  and  brightness  came  permanently  to  live  in  the 
old  farmhouse.  Amandar 's  mother  found  another  wor- 


228  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

shipper  at  her  homely  shrine  ;  and,  if  there  was  a  thorn 
in  Lovey's  roses,  it  was  the  fact  that  no  little  girl  was 
given  her  to  wear  the  sacred  appellation  of  its  grand 
mother.  And,  of  all  the  fine  boys  who  made  in  their 
turn  a  temporary  bedlam  of  the  farm,  not  one  was 
permitted  to  be  called  after  his  father ;  for  Amandar 
had  answered  for  himself  the  old  question,  and  found 
out  that  there  is  a  great  deal  in  a  name.  4 


POLLY  MARINER,   TAILORESS. 

TAUNTON  STREET  is  long  and  high.  A  wide  road, 
skirted  by  equally  wide  strips  of  turf,  in  whose  shal 
low  gutters  (a  single  furrow  of  the  plough,  grassed  over 
by  time)  grow  Mayweed,  yarrow,  and  nettle,  herbs  of 
repellant  touch  and  vile  odor,  it  runs  on  the  top  of 
Taunton  Hill,  from  whose  broad  and  long  crest  you 
can  see  more  of  Western  Connecticut  in  its  develop 
ment  of  bare  round  hills,  mullein-stalks,  stones,  and 
life- everlasting,  than  is  good  for  the  soul  of  the  thrifty, 
or  pleasant  to  the  eyes  of  the  discerning. 

Whatever  is  agreeable  to  behold  lies  on  either  hand 
in  the  white,  red,  or  brown  farmhouses,  each  in  its 
own  green  yard,  with  a  garden  on  one  hand  and  a  lane 
leading  to  the  barn  and  shed  on  the  other  ;  some  more 
adorned  than  others  with  lilac-bushes  and  sticky  rose- 
acacias  ;  others  more  neatly  ordered  about  doorstep, 
chip-yard,  and  picket- fence ;  but  all  wearing  a  certain 
patient  and  pathetic  homeliness  that  must  have  risen 
thousands  of  times  before  dying  eyes,  and  filled  them 
with  homesick  tears. 

On  the  very  top  of  Taunton  Hill,  or,  rather,  on  the 
middle  of  its  broad  back,  stood  the  old  white  meeting 
house,  and  behind  it,  on  the  eastern  slope,  the  grave 
yard,  —  no  elegant  cemetery,  where  one  can  return  to 
dust  regardless  of  expense  in  rosewood  and  velvet, 

229 


230  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

wept  over  by  marble  angels  holding  cold  blossoms, 
but  a  quiet,  deserted-looking  place  of  burial,  wearing 
the  natural  loneliness  of  death ;  altogether  separated 
from  life,  except  at  the  rare  and  silent  funerals  that 
gathered  there  on  business,  or  when,  once  in  a  decade, 
some  profane  antiquary,  fumbling  after  dates  among 
the  brown  stones,  discovered  among  those  gaping  and 
agonized  cherubs  a  record  to  the  effect  that  Mrs. 
Lovina  Jinkinson's  "  ethereal  parts  became  a  seraph 
on  the  15th  of  June,"  and  smiled  behind  his  silk 
handkerchief. 

Half  a  mile  beyond  this  abode  of  religion  and  mor 
tality  was  a  small  red  house,  standing  in  its  own  yard, 
and  having  a  little  garden  to  the  south,  but  neither 
lane  nor  barn  :  a  drooping  elm-tree  shaded  it  in  front, 
and  one  huge  apple-tree  spread  its  gnarled  growth 
over  the  end  of  the  garden ;  cinnamon-roses  grew  on 
either  side  of  the  flat  gray  door-stone  ;  but  no  further 
floral  decorations  softened  the  grim  aspect  of  those 
always-shut  windows,  behind  whose  green  glass, 
greener  paper  shades  preserved  a  ghastly  twilight  in 
the  u  front-room."  But  a  little  sidling  path,  well  worn 
through  the  turf,  led  round  the  corner  to  the  south 
door,  a  place  of  cheerier  countenance,  where  broods 
of  chickens  peeped  and  pecked ;  where  the  cat  washed 
her  face  in  the  sunshine  ;  and  where  the  opened  door 
gave  pleasant  glimpses  of  a  clean  kitchen,  with  'Sire 
Mariner,  in  a  tall,  list-bottomed  arm-chair,  sitting  by 
the  fire  doing  nothing,  and  Polly  his  daughter  bus 
tling  about  doing  every  thing.  Desire  Mariner  (com 
monly  called  'Sire)  was  a  placid,  weakly,  peace-loving 
old  man,  who  had  been  sexton  and  shoemaker  time 
out  of  mind  in  Tauuton  Street.  If  you  wanted  a  pair 


POLLY  MARINER,   TATLORESS.  231 

of  shoes,  he  could  make  them  in  three  weeks,  if  noth 
ing  happened  :  if  you  wanted  a  grave  dug,  it  took  him 
all  day  to  do  it.  His  wife  had  lived  in  a  state  of  bustle 
and  aggravation  while  she  did  live  ;  and,  when  she 
died,  her  child  carried  on  the  business. 

"Well,  Polly,  what  be  you  a-goin'  to  do  now?" 
said  Mrs.  Perkins,  the  deacon's  wife,  to  Polly,  as  she 
entered  the  house  behind  her,  coming  home  from 
Marah  Mariner's  funeral. 

"Learn  a  trade,"  said  Polly,  nowise  resenting  the 
freedom  of  speech  which  interfered  with  her  private 
affairs  on  what  should  have  been  a  solem  and  sad  occa 
sion. 

"The  land's  sake!"  and  up  went  Mrs.  Perkins's 
eyes.  "  Learn  a  trade  !  Well,  I  never  !  'n'  here  you've 
had  a  real  good  edication,  'n'  might  jest  as  well  get  a 
good  deestrick  school  as  not,  'n'  stay  to  home  'n'  take 
keer  of  him  ! ' ' 

"I  ha'n't  had  no  great  schooling  Miss  Perkins, 
though  I  s'pose  I  could  make  shift  to  knock  what  little 
I  had  into  childern's  heads  ;  but  keep  school  I  never 
will.  Firstly  I  hate  damp  boys  :  they're  always  gettin' 
damp  and  steamin',  and  I'd  as  lieve  be  choked  to 
once.  Secondly  I  hate  boys  anyway :  they're  nothin' 
but  torments.  An'  thirdly  1  hate  school- keepin' .  You 
don't  never  suit.  If  you're  strict,  then  folks  sez  you're 
cruel  and  bad  dispositioned :  if  you're  easy,  an'  jest 
git  along,  then  you're  slack  and  lazy.  I'd  jest  as 
willin'ly  be  a  minister's  wife  as  a  schoolma'am,  an'  I 
can't  say  no  more'n  that.  No,  my  mind's  made  up  : 
mother  'n'  me  talked  it  over.  Aunt  Roxy's  goin'  to 
stay  here  'long  of  father  for  a  year,  while  Samwell  and 
his  wife  goes  out  to  Indianny  to  get  settled,  and  then 


232  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

she's  goin'  too ;  and  by  that  time  I'll  have  got  my 
trade  learned,  and  come  home." 

"Well,  well,  I  s'pose  you'll  do  jest  as  you'd 
rather. ' ' 

And  so  Polly  did.  Vain  were  all  the  remonstrances 
of  friends  and  neighbors.  Off  she  went  the  next  week 
to  Hartford  ;  and  there,  by  dint  of  hard  work,  "  doing 
chores"  for  her  board,  and  grubbing  through  all  the 
mysteries  of  cutting,  pressing,  turning,  and  button 
holing,  she  became  mistress  of  her  art,  and  returned 
to  Taunton  Street  as  accomplished  a  tailoress  as  the 
times  afforded.  But  alas  !  her  fair  plans  of  a  busy  and 
vivacious  life,  going  out  day  by  day  to  the  neighboring 
farmers'  houses  with  her  beneficent  press-board,  shears, 
and  headless  thimble,  where  she  would  be  regaled  with 
the  best  of  food  and  the  freshest  of  gossip,  all  fell 
through.  'Sire  Mariner  was  hopelessly  bed-ridden  when 
Polly  came  back,  and  aunt  Roxy  all  packed  for  her 
Western  journey. 

Nothing  very  serious  seemed  to  ail  the  old  man.  He 
had  been  rheumatic,  taken  cold,  gone  to  bed,  and 
found  it  was  a  warm,  comfortable  place,  and  lain  there 
till  the  unused  muscles  and  dulled  circulation  became 
a  fixed  physical  habit ;  and  he  had  no  energy  of  mind 
or  elasticity  of  nerves  to  combat  the  mild  depression 
that  held  him,  as  it  were,  in  cobweb  chains. 

Still  he  needed  constant  care,  and  made  constant 
trouble.  Polly  could  not  leave  him  for  more  than  an 
hour ;  and  he  would  spill  his  food,  and  drop  his  snuff, 
and  tip  over  the  tallow  candle,  till  Polly's  hair  crinkled 
more  fiercely  than  ever,  and  she  scolded  and  bustled 
like  a  domestic  blackbird.  Whatever  tailoring  she 
could  take  in  at  home  she  did  and  did  well,  and 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  233 

even  condescended  to  plain  sewing  at  odd  times.  She 
hoed  the  garden  after  old  Isr'el  Grubb  had  dug  and 
planted  it ;  she  made  root-beer  to  sell,  and  concocted 
sirups  of  great  power  in  cases  of  "humors"  and 
"spine  in  the  back."  Sometimes  she  made  election- 
cake,  —  a  Connecticut  institution  that  takes  as  much 
"judgment "  to  its  final  success  as  a  salad  ;  and  nobody 
made  such  hop-yeast  as  Polly.  All  these  things  eked 
out  a  frugal  existence  for  the  two  during  the  next  ten 
years  ;  and  then  one  night  'Sire  Mariner  went  to  sleep, 
and  never  woke  up.  Mrs.  Deacon  Perkins  had  on  the 
same  black  bombazine,  the  same  figured  lace  veil  over 
a  brown  silk  bonnet,  and  the  same  gray-centred  broche" 
shawl  that  adorned  her  before,  when  she  followed 
Polly  into  the  house  this  time  after  the  funeral,  with 
the  same  question  on  her  thin  lips,  — 

"  Well,  Polly,  what  be  you  goin'  to  do  now?  " 

"  Tailorin',"  says  Polly  undauntedly. 

"  I  want  to  know  !  You  ain't  calculatin'  to  live  here 
all  alone,  be  ye?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  to  take  boarders." 

"  Laws  sakes  !  I  wa'n't  thinking  o'  that.  I  should 
suppose  now  you'd  go  an'  make  it  your  home  with 
somebody.  There's  your  aunt  Sary  :  she  hain't  got  no 
body  to  help  her,  'n'  she's  dreadful  feeble  this  year ; 
and  I  should  think  'twould  be  a  kind  of  a  dooty  for 
ye,  and  a  good  home." 

"Well,  now,  Miss  Perkins,"  said  Polly,  sitting 
down  deliberately,  and  evidently  resolved  to  finish  the 
matter,  "I  a'n't  a-goin'  into  nobody's  house  that 
way.  I  don't  b'lieve  in't.  Whilst  I  live  by  myself 
an'  take  care  of  myself,  I  a'n't  beholden  to  nobody ; 
and  I  know  when  my  work's  done,  and  what's  to  pay 


234  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

for't.  I  kin  sing,  or  laugh,  or  cry,  or  fix  my  hair  into 
a  cocked  hat,  and  nobody's  got  right  or  reason  to  say, 
4  Why  do  ye  so?  '  Fact  is,  I've  got  my  liberty,  'n'  I'm 
goin'  to  keep  it :  it'll  be  hard  work,  p'rhaps ;  but  it's 
wuth  it." 

"Well,  I  never  did  see  sech  a  contrary  creetur  in 
all  my  born  days,"  sighed  Mrs.  Perkins.  "You'll  live 
to  repent  it,  sure  as  I'm  alive,  Polly  Mariner !  'n' 
what's  more,  I  don't  b'lieve  you'll  stick  to't  more'n 
a  month  ! ' ' 

Polly  felt  no  sinkings  of  heart  at  this  denunciation  : 
what  had  she  to  be  afraid  of?  She  shut  her  door,  and 
went  to  bed,  no  more  solitary  than  she  had  been 
before.  Her  work  was  lightened  of  its  heaviest  rou 
tine  ;  and  when  she  had  cleared  away  the  traces  of  her 
father's  occupancy,  and  cleaned  her  tiny  house  from 
top  to  bottom  till  the  very  tins  shone,  she  sat  down  to 
her  needle  with  a  stout  and  contented  heart,  with 
nobody  to  make  her  afraid,  though  there  were  a  few 
to  molest  her. 

Now,  if  Polly  had  been  sixty  instead  of  thirty-five, 
she  might  have  been  let  alone,  except  for  the  kindly 
gifts  of  their  abundance  that  the  neighbors  might  send 
in.  But  here  was  a  strong,  healthy,  intelligent  woman, 
cast  on  her-own  resources,  and  without  a  relative  near 
enough  to  interfere  with  her  choice  of  livelihood. 
What  a  help  and  treasure  she  would  be  in  a  family !  — 
not  as  a  mere  servant,  but  one  of  the  household,  ready 
to  fill  all  gaps,  fasten  all  loose  threads,  and  be  the 
general  "  knitter-up  of  unconsidered  trifles." 

Aunt  Sary  came  first,  —  aunt  by  courtesy,  as  the 
second  wife  of  Polly's  step  (not  half)  uncle.  She  was 
a  thin,  pale,  dreary,  bilious-looking  woman,  with  dark 


POLLY   MARINER,   TAILORESS.  235 

eyes  set  in  dismal  hollows,  drooping  lips,  emaciated 
temples,  and  a  little  iron-gray  hair  scratched  up  here 
and  there  on  her  head,  and  crowned  with  a  fearful 
black  lace  cap,  that,  in  its  turn,  wore  patches  of  dull 
purple  ribbon.  Aunt  Sary  was  an  invalid  and  a  de 
sponding  woman. 

"And  what  more  can  I  say?  she  said."  Talk 
about  Ossa  on  Pelion  !  what  were  Chimborazo  on  Popo- 
catapetl  compared  to  dyspepsia  and  liver-complaint  on 
constitutional  melancholy  ?  To  her,  every  wind  blew 
from  the  east ;  all  clouds  were  tempest,  and  all  sun 
shine  torrid  ;  if  snow  ' '  kilt ' '  her,  heat  and  verdure 
had  as  bad  an  effect ;  the  grasshopper  was  more 
than  a  burden  to  her ;  and  the  mourners  had  gone 
about  the  streets  of  her  soul  for  so  many  years,  that 
everybody  else  had  got  worn  out  hearing  their  wails 
and  howls,  and  fairly  wished  the  funeral  over.  Yet 
aunt  Sary  had,  like  all  the  rest  of  us  miserable  sinners, 
her  good  and  lovable  points.  She  was  kind-hearted 
when  she  could  be  brought  to  consider  anybody  else's 
woes :  she  was  a  dutiful  wife  and  mother.  Though 
her  husband's  mental  thermometer  always  sank  when 
he  entered  the  door,  and  her  children  kept  out  of  her 
way,  there  were  few  women  in  Taunton  more  consci 
entiously  dutiful  than  Mrs.  Sarah  Platt.  Her  fate 
was  hard  ;  for  nobody  loved  her,  and  every  thing  fretted 
her.  Shall  not  one  rather  pity  than  condemn  the  nettle 
whose  bloom  is  so  trivial,  and  its  foliage  so  repellant? 

Polly  Mariner  did  not  feel  any  special  compassion 
for  nettles. 

"  Well,  Polly,"  sighed  aunt  Sary,  painfully  laboring 
up  the  two  steps  into  the  kitchen,  and  dropping  into  the 
nearest  chair,  "  you've  been  quite  afflicted  since  I  saw 


236  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOES. 

ye.  It's  a  real  mysterious  Providence  't  you  should 
be  left  so  to  yourself  !  "  (As  if  she  was  !) 

"  No  'tain't,"  snapped  Polly. 

Aunt  Sarah  groaned. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  don't  feel  your  par's 
loss." 

"  Who  said  I  didn't,  aunt  Sary?  I  a'n't  one  to  go 
a-wipin'  my  eyes  on  everybody's  han'kercher.  I  hadn't 
never  felt  a  call  to  cry  on  the  meetin' -house  steps, 
nuther ;  but  that  don't  say  but  what  I've  got  feelings 
somewhere." 

"You  hadn't  got  a  monerment  ready  to  put  up  for 
him,  I  s'pose?  Husband's  got  a  slab  to  spare,  I 
b'lieve.  He  got  two  when  Malviny  and  Jane  Maria 
was  both  so  took  down  with  fever ;  but  you  see  Malviny 
got  well,  an'  the  slab's  there  in  our  back-shed,  and 
he's  dreadful  afraid  it'll  get  scratched  and  sp'ilt :  so 
he'd  let  you  hev  it  cheap." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  I'll  come  over  an' 
dicker  with  him,"  said  Polly  respectfully,  somewhat 
softened  by  the  prospect  of  a  bargain. 

"  But  that  a'n't  the  most  of  what  I  come  to  say, 
Polly.  I  know't  you'll  be  dredful  lonesome  here,  and 
husband  and  I'll  be  real  glad  to  have  you  come  'n'  make 
it  your  home  with  us.  I  have  so  many  poor  spells,  — 
and  I  don't  seem  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  'em  ;  they 
ruther  gain  on  me,  —  that  I  should  be  proper  glad  to 
have  some  grown  woman  in  the  house,  though  I  calker- 
late  to  do  the  heft  of  the  work  myself.  You  could 
have  time  to  sew  consider' ble,  and  I'd  give  ye  the  back- 
chamber,  where  Hanner  sleeps,  and  you  could  bring 
along  what  beddin'  an'  furnitoor  you've  got ;  and  I 
guess  the  rent  of  this  house  would  pay  for  your  clothin', 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  237 

and  I  wouldn't  begrudge  ye  what  it  didn't.  And  more 
over  it  a'n't  quite  to  my  likin'  for  a  young  woman  to 
live  to  [by]  herself  so  :  'n  there  !  " 

Mrs.  Platt  stopped,  exhausted,  wiped  her  face  with 
a  printed  cotton  handkerchief,  and  began  to  rock. 

Polly  had  been  sitting  speechless,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  her  aunt,  as  if  to  hear  what  she  would  say  to  the 
end ;  and  it  was  no  pleasant  thing  to  have  those  black 
eyes,  so  keen,  so  apprehending,  so  persistent,  looking 
behind  one's  words  into  their  thoughts.  No  wonder 
aunt  Sary's  face  shone  with  unwonted  drops  of  sweat ! 

"  What  did  you  pay  Marthy  Wade  last  year?  "  said 
she  at  length. 

Aunt  Sary  stared,  but  spoke. 

"Well,  I  gin  her  a  dollar  a  week."  (Dear  reader, 
this  was  forty  years  ago.) 

"Well  now,  aunt  Sary,  I  don't  expect  to  go  out  to 
doin'  chores  for  nobody  ;  and,  ef  I  did,  I  wouldn't  do  it 
for  nothiu'.  Work's  wuth  pay;  'n'  when  I  can't  I'll 
go  to  the  town-farm  'n'  be  took  in." 

"O  Polly,  Polly!" 

"And,  what's  more,  if  I  a'n't  old  enough  to  take 
keer  of  myself,  'n'  live  by  myself,  I  don't  know  who  is. 
I'm  five  an'  thirty  year  old  last  December,  'n'  I'd  cut 
my  eye-teeth  quite  a  spell  ago ;  and  I  a'n't  a-goin'  to 
live  with  nobody,  much  less  for  nothin',  as  I  told  ye 
before." 

"O  Polly!  I'm  dredful  disapp'inted,  I  do  declare. 
I'd  lotted  on  havin'  ye  to  my  house.  But  I  lia'n't  got 
no  strength  to  battle  it  out  with  ye  :  an',  come  to  think 
on't,  I  guess  it's  all  for  the  best,  as  providences  gen 
erally  be  ;  for  I  shouldn't  want  your  fellers  round  in 
the  keepin'-roorn  eveniu's." 


238  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

At  this  last  little  feminine  fling  Polly  blazed  ;  for  it 
was  a  notorious  fact  in  the  village,  that  no  young  man 
had  ever  cared  to  face  her  temper  and  her  tongue 
enough  to  ' 4  keep  company  ' '  with  her. 

"There,  now  you've  done  it!  I  never  knew  a 
dreadful  good,  sickly  woman  but  what  could  sting  jest 
as  well  as  a  honey-bee.  No,  ma'am  !  you  won't  be 
troubled  with  me  nor  my  company  ;  but  I  wish  you  well 
and  good- afternoon,  and  I  hope  you  won't  be  troubled 
with  nothin'  wuss  —  nor  your  husband  neither  !  " 

Mrs.  Platt  began  to  wipe  her  eyes,  and  snuffle  so  vio 
lently  that  Polly  knew  she  had  driven  her  to  the  wall, 
and  watched  her  retreat  down  the  yard  with  grim  satis 
faction. 

Next  day  came  another  afflicter  of  her  peace  in  the 
sweet  guise  of  cousin  Rachel  Green,  a  Quakeress  of 
the  gentlest  sort;  one  of  those  "sporadic  cases,"  as 
the  doctors  call  them,  of  Quakerism,  that  now  and 
then  blossom  out  in  remote  New-England  villages. 

Peace  on  earth  and  good  will  toward  men  embodied 
Rachel's  moral  creed  ;  and  peace  lived  in  her  pure  eyes, 
smoothed  the  fair  old  forehead,  and  almost  bloomed  on 
those  sweet,  faded  lips.  Something  like  a  south  wind 
in  early  spring  sounded  in  Polly's  ear  as  she  sat  by  the 
window,  stitching  a  pair  of  overalls,  though  it  only 
said,  — 

"Good-day,  Polly!  Thee  is  as  busy  as  ever,  I 
see." 

"Why,  Miss  Green!  Do  tell  if  it's  you?  Walk 
right  in  and  sit  down.  I've  been  kind  of  expectin'  ye 
quite  a  spell." 

"And  I  should  have  been  to  see  thee  before,  Polly ; 
but  I  have  been  down  to  Westerly  to  stay  with  Jona- 


POLLY  MARINER,   TAILORESS.  239 

than's  father,  who  was  nigh  death  for  quite  a  while. 
I  only  came  back  yesterday,  and  heard  thee  had  expe 
rienced  a  great  loss.  So  I  came  over  as  quickly  as  I 
could." 

"Well,  yes:  father  was  a  kind  of  a  loss.  He 
hadn't  been  no  great  company  for  several  years  along 
back,  and  it  was  consider' ble  of  a  chore  to  keer  for 
him  jest  as  one  had  oughter ;  but  I  expect  I  miss  him 
as  much  as  most  folks  would,  though  I  a'n't  one  o'  the 
frettin'  kind." 

"  Thee  has  been  a  good  daughter  to  him,  and  that  is 
a  comfort ;  and  then  thee  must  feel  also  that  he  is 
better  off  without  the  affliction  of  the  body,  and  re 
joiced  to  meet  thy  mother." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  rejoined  Polly,  a 
refractory  smile  twisting  the  deep  corners  of  her  mouth 
in  spite  of  herself.  "  I  expect  we're  all  kind  o'  made 
over  in  another  state  :  ef  we  a'n't,  I  don't  see  much  use 
in  goin'  there." 

Friend  Green  looked  hard  at  the  cooking-stove.  She 
was  undeniably  shocked ;  but  her  habitual  and  un 
bounded  charity  speedily  put  its  own  construction,  like 
the  outpouring  of  a  golden  mist,  on  Polly's  speech. 

"  Yes,  we  shall  all  be  changed,  it  saith  in  Scripture  ; 
and  I  think,  with  thee,  it  is  a  blessed  change  to  lay  off 
our  mortality,  and  take  on  us  spiritual  garments  white 
and  clean." 

Polly  looked  at  her,  but  said  no  more. 

"I  came  to  see  thee  also,  Polly,  to  ask  about  thy 
plans  ;  not  in  the  spirit  of  curiosity,  but  that  I  might 
help  thee  if  I  could." 

"  My  plans  is  pretty  much  cut  an'  dried,  Miss  Green. 
I  guess  I  shall  git  enough  tailorin'  to  do,  now't  I  can 


240  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

go  out  an'  do't ;  'n'  Isr'el  Grubb'll  fix  ray  garden  for 
me  ;  and  I  understand  plantin'  and  weedin'  pretty  well. 
I  can  raise  what  green  sass  I  need  to  hev,  an'  yarbs, 
'n'  I  guess  potatoes  enough,  because  I  expect  to  get  a 
good  deal  o'  boardin',  you  know;  'n'  that's  why  I'd 
ruther  go  out  than  take  work  to  home.  Besides,  it's 
kinder  refrashin'  to  go  round  and  see  folks.  I  don't 
nauker  no  great  to  travil  to  see  mountains,  and  sea 
sides,  and  what  folks  in  the  newspapers  call  'natur'.' 
I'd  sights  liveser  see  folks.  I  like  to  hear  talk,  and 
talk  myself,  'nd  git  sorter  interested  in  what's  goin'  on. 
I  expect  that's  what  people  were  meant  to  do,  not  go 
pokin'  around  with  their  noses  in  the  air  after  stumps 
and  trees,  and  sightly  places  thet  can't  say  nor  do  so 
much  as  a  fannm'-mill  any  time  o'  clay." 

"  If  those  is  thy  feelings,  Polly,  don't  thee  think  it's 
a  leading  for  thee  to  find  a  home  in  some  family  where 
thee' 11  be  one  of  the  household,  and  have  thy  interests, 
as  it  were,  all  in  a  place?  There  is  many  a  family  here 
and  elsewhere  would  be  glad  to  have  a  capable  person 
like  thee  amongst  them." 

"Oh,  dear,  Miss  Green!  Who'd  ha'  thought  you 
was  goin'  to  pester  me  about  that  too?  I  tell  you 
what,  I've  made  up  my  mind  about  it,  'n'  it'll  take  a 
sight  to  change  it.  I  a' n't  one  o'  them  complyin'  and 
good-natered  critturs  that'll  give  up,  'n'  give  up,  'n'  give 
up,  till  they  can't  call  their  souls  their  own  :  them's 
the  kind  that's  good  to  live  in  other  folks's  families,  'n' 
to  go  into  the  ministry  ;  and  they  a' n't  good  for  noth- 
in'  else.  I  want  to  do  what  I'm  a  mind  to,  'n'  I  can't 
be  yoked  up  to  other  folks's  wants  anyhow,  leastways 
no  more'n  just  for  a  spell,  —  say  a  day  or  so.  Also  I 
must  use  my  tongue,  if  I  have  to  speak  in  meetin'.  I've 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  241 

got  to  call  a  spade  a  spade,  an'  a  lie  a  lie  ;  and  you 
know  that  don't  allers  sound  savory ;  but  it  doos 
appear  better,  a  heap,  in  them  that  has  house  an'  land 
o'  their  own,  and  a  place  to  hide  ^their  sassy  heads  in, 
than  in  them  that's  allers  under  foot.  Now,  hain't  I 
got  reason  to  roast  my  eggs  by  ?  " 

"I  don't  deny  that  thee  has  reason,  Polly.  Thy 
talk  sounds  well-considered ;  but  I  am  fearful  that  by 
and  by  thee  may  get  to  hanker  after  those  family  ties 
that  seem  burdensome  to  thee  now.  Thee  knows  the 
Scripture,  '  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,'  which, 
I  think,  meaneth  not  a  man,  but  the  whole  humanity. 
It  huth  pleased  the  Lord  to  leave  thee  solitary  in 
respect  of  relations  ;  but  '  he  setteth  the  solitary  in 
families.'  ' 

"Well  I  don't  feel  to  be  sure  that  they're  other 
people's  families  ;  V  if  I  ha'n't  got  no  relations,  'pears 
to  me,  ef  you  git  to  talkin'  about  Providence,  that  it 
looks 's  though  I  was  kinder  intended  to  be  left  by 
myself." 

Rachel  had  to  smile.  The  inherent  dry  sense  of 
humor  that  seems  to  be  the  calyx  of  a  Quakeress  blos 
som  like  this  was  tickled  by  Polly's  ingenious  defence 
of  her  own  will  and  way. 

"  Well,  thee  must  act  by  thy  lights,  Polly ;  and  re 
member  thee  has  plenty  of  good  friends  if  thee  changes 
thy  mind." 

"  Thankey  kindly,  Miss  Green.  I  guess  I  a'n't  like 
to  forget  you  amongst  'em." 

This  was  so  much  more  sentiment  than  Polly  often 
indulged  in,  that  she  retired  behind  the  overalls,  under 
pretence  of  some  omitted  overcasting,  and  only  said 
"Good-by,"  in  a  prim  and  grim  way,  when  Friend 
Green  departed. 


242  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Alas  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature  !  No  sooner 
had  the  little  gate  clicked  to  than  down  went  those 
friendly  overalls  on  the  floor. 

"  I  swan  to  man,  it's  enough  to  crisp  one's  eyelashes 
to  have  sech  pesterin'  goin'  on  all  the  time.  Why,  in 
the  name  o'  judgment,  I  can't  be  left  to  do  what  I  darn 
please,  is  musical  to  me.  Anyhow,  I  guess  I'll  do  it, 
or  I'll  know  why  an'  wherefore,  as  true's  my  name's 
Polly  Mariner." 

But  Polly  was  troubled  no  more.  On  the  contrary, 
aid  and  comfort  came  to  her  in  the  person  of  Isr'el 
Grubb,  no  later  than  the  next  morning,  when  he  thrust 
his  grizzled  head  and  shrewd  wrinkled  face  into  the 
back-door  early. 

"Mornin',  Miss  Polly!  Say,  Jehiel  wants  to  know 
if  them  overhauls  o'  his'n  a'u't  nigh  about  done?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  they  be.  I  set  the  last  stitch  into  'em 
last  night." 

"Well,  Jehiel' s  wife  she  wants  you  to  come  over 
there  a  spell  next  week  and  fix  up  her  boys :  school's 
a-goin'  to  keep  next  week." 

"  Yes  :  I'll  go  any  tune  after  Tuesday  night." 

"  I  declare  for't !  you're  real  prompt.  I  do  hate  to 
see  folks  fiddlin'  round's  though  they  was  so  shif'less 
they  didn't  know  nothin'.  Say,  I  heerd  down  to  the 
store  you  giv  Miss  Platt  an  all-fired  dressiu'  when  she 
come  for  to  git  you  to  go  'n'  live  with  her." 

k l  Well,  now,  that's  a  Taunton  lie.  I  didn't  do  no  sech 
thing.  First  she  pestered  me,  'n'  then  she  sassed  me  ; 
'n'  what  I  said  back  didn't  no  way  square  the  bilL 
you'd  better  believe." 

"  I  don't  say  but  what  I  think  you  had  the  right  on't, 
ef  you  did,"  pursued  Isr'el,  taking  off  his  hat  as  if  to 


POLLY  MABINEE,   TAILOBESS.  243 

find  his  rag  of  a  handkerchief,  and  settling  himself  on 
the  doorstep,  where  he  resumed  the  hat  after  shaking 
and  turning  it  round.  "It  allers  seemed  to  me  the 
foolishest  thing  a  woman  could  do't  hadn't  got  no  folks, 
to  go  'u'  take  'em  on.  Good  land !  did  ever  anybody 
see  men-folks  do  sech  a  gawpin'  thing?  I  guess  it  'ud 
look  pooty  to  see  old  Granther  Styles,  or  me,  took  into 
somebody's  house  to  do  chores  for  nothin'.  I  don't 
know  as  men- folks  generally  knows  more'n  wimmen 
'bout  house  an'  sich  ;  but  they  do  know  enough  to  work 
jest  as  long  as  bones  an'  sinners  [he  meant  sinews]  '11 
hang  together,  'u'  then  go  to  the  town-haouse  'thout 
makin'  no  fuss." 

k'I  guess  there's  all  kinds  o'  folks  in  the  world, 
Isr'el,  'n'  I'm  glad  I  a'n't  one  on  'em,  as  Miss  Purkis 
used  ter  say ;  'nd  I  do  s'pose  there's  some  wimmen's 
jest  as  good  as  some  men,  an'  some  men  jest  as  goocl- 
for-nothin'  as  some  wimmen." 

"  Well,  I  guess  there  be.  Naow,  I  calkeiiate  to  dig 
your  garden  for  ye  next  week ;  'nd  in  case  you  want 
any  thing  o'  me  dredful  bad  any  time,  you  can  jest  put 
a  white  handkercher,  or  suthiu',  in  your  keepin'-room 
winder,  or  a  lamp,  ef  so  be  it's  night-time,  'n'  ef  I  or 
my  folks  sees  it,  we'll  be  raound  pootty  spry,  I  tell 

ye." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,  though  I  guess 
I  sha'n't  get  skeered." 

k'  But  ye  might  be  sick.  Folks  is  flesh  an'  blood,  if 
they  be  dredful  mighty.  I'll  tell  Jehiel  to  come  round 
for  ye  real  early  Wednesday." 

4sr'el  sauntered  off ;  and  on  that  next  Wednesday 
began  the  public  life  and  services  of  Polly  Mariner, 
tailoress.  It  needs  a  personal  acquaintance  with  the 


244  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

lonely  and  hard  lives  of  New-England  farmers,  and 
more  especially  their  wives,  to  fully  comprehend  how 
Polly  became  at  once  a  power  in  the  land.  She  was  a 
woman  of  strong  character  and  great  courage.  Had 
she  lived  in  these  days,  the  very  queens  of  the  women's 
rights'. party  would  have  been  domineered  over,  out- 
scolded,  and  out-dressed  by  her.  She  would  not  have 
stopped  short  of  masculine  garments  in  the  adoption  of 
masculine  privileges  ;  for  she  had  that  rarest  of  femi 
nine  gifts, — except  one,  —  a  logical  mind;  and,  be- 
snnnino-  at  the  end  of  a  clew,  would  unwind  it  with 

C>  O  ' 

precision  and  skill  to  the  very  end,  bitter  or  not,  as  it 
might  be.  But,  happily  for  this  generation,  she  lived 
in  the  last ;  and  Fate,  always  intelligent  and  benign 
under  its  severest  aspect,  even  when  we  hesitate  to  call 
it  by  its  Christian  name  of  Providence,  compelled  her 
to  a  sphere  where  she  did  good  less  mingled  with  evil 
than  it  might  have  been  in  the  unrestrained  possession 
of  pulpit,  platform,  and  press.  If  Polly  (forgive  the 
misquotation) 

"  To  a  village  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind," 

mankind  and  the  village  were  both  the  better.  She 
circulated  among  the  solitary  farmhouses  far  and  near, 
like  a  racy  newspaper,  for  one  thing.  She  had  a 
faculty,  frequent  in  old  maids,  of  having  genealogies  at 
her  tongue's  end.  She  knew  who  everybody's  grand 
father's  first  wife's  second-cousin  married,  and  where 
all  their  children  had  settled.  All  the  children's  ages 
in  every  house  were  referred  to  her  as  final  authority, 
if  they  chanced  to  have  been  left  out  of  the  family 
record.  She  was  infallible  on  pickles,  sweetmeats, 
"  jell,"  curing  hams,  and  corning  beef.  Nobody  made 


POLLY  MARINER,   TAILORESS.  245 

such  soap,  or  such  yeast.  Hens  that  recalcitrated 
from  their  yearly  duties  quaked  before  her,  and  began 
to  set  under  her  ' '  methods  "  as  if  nothing  could  please 
them  better.  She  even  knew  how  to  eradicate  smut 
from  wheat,  and  cut  potatoes  for  planting  better  than 
half  the  farmers.  And  as  for  news,  not  a  mouse 
squeaked  anywhere  within  her  rounds  but  she  could 
and  would  tell  the  next  cat  of  it.  Judge  what  tireless 
gossip  flowed  from  her  vivacious  tongue,  and  tickled  the 
dull  pool  of  many  a  household  into  ripples  of  laughter, 
regret,  or  astonishment,  full  of  mental  healing  for 
those  stagnant  lives. 

Then  Polly  had  another  gift,  equally  beneficent,  if 
more  poignant.  She  had  the  power  and  the  will  to  tell 
truths,  pleasant  or  unpleasant,  in  a  manner  that  was  as 
convincing  as  caustic ;  for  the  strong  common  sense 
that  gave  her  insight  its  practical  value  weighted  all 
her  shafts,  and  sent  them  deep  into  the  mark.  Nobody 
seemed  to  be  much  offended,  or,  if  they  were,  they 
sulked  a  while  and  got  over  it ;  for  Polly  was  as  imper 
vious  to  sullen  looks  or  sharp  words  as  a  duck  to  rain, 
and  she  was  too  necessary  to  be  lightly  set  aside. 
Poor  Mr.  Evarts,  the  minister  who  was  once,  for  his 
sins,  preaching  as  "  candidate"  in  Taunton,  dated  his 
disappointment  there  from  the  day  a  sewing- circle  met 
at  Deacon  Griswold's,  and  Polly  "  freed  her  mind." 

"  What  do  I  think  about  him,  Miss  Gris'l'd?  Well, 
I  think  he's  small  pertaters,  and  few  in  a  hill.  I  don't 
hev  no  faith  in  a  man't  gits  up  in  a  pulpit,  an'  preaches 
away  about  flowers,  'n'  stars,  'n'  love,  'n'  crystal 
springs,  'n'  all  that.  A'n't  we  sinners,  'n'  pretty  bad 
ones  too,  at  that?  And  what  on  airth  dic\  he  expect 
to  do  when  he  set  up  to  preach,  ef  'twan't  to  make 


246  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

folks  better?  I  don't  like  to  hear  his  posies  no  bet- 
ter'n  I  did  to  hear  Parson  Tinker  allers  thunderin' 
damnation,  and  'lection,  an'  decrees.  What  I  like's  to 
have  him  preach  so't  the  men- folks' 11  go  home  an'  try 
to  behave  better  to  their  wives,  an'  their  children,  an' 
their  helps ;  and  the  wimmen'll  stop  frettin'  and 
whiniu'  and  fault-findin,  and  sayin'  mean,  sting-in' 
things  to  each  other  when  they  get  vexed.  Fact  is,  I 
want  to  get  kinder  licked  smooth  nryself,  'nd  git  some 
patience  drummed  into  me.  I  don't  want  a  snip  like 
that  set  up  to  hash  verses,  and  reel  'em  off,  cos  he's 
paid  to  do  sumthin',  an'  that's  all  he  can  do.  Sup- 
posin'  you  was  took  dredful  sick,  'n'  struck  with  death, 
and,  naterally  enough,  your  folks  sent  for  the  minister 
to  come  'n'  see  ye  :  what  kind  o'  use  or  comfort  would 
this  little  peepin'  crittur  be,  a-talkin'  about  harps,  'n' 
angels,  'n'  sech?  I  tell  ye,  Miss  Gris'l'd,  a  minister 
had  ought  to  be  a  man,  and  a  smart  mi',  and  a  good 
un'.  Ef  the  Lord's  work's  worth  doin',  it's  worth 
doin'  well  jest  as  much  as  your'n  or  mine  is  :  thet's 
what  I  think  about  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  ye're  in  the  right 
on't,  Polly.  I  don't  think  husband  reelly  sets  by  him 
much." 

"Husband"  was  duly  regaled  with  Polly's  speech, 
after  the  feminine  conclave  had  folded  their  work,  and 
gone  home  to  bed. 

"  Darn  it  all !  "  said  the  deacon  ("  darn  "  is  a  harm 
less  expletive,  even  for  deacons),  bringing  his  right 
hand  down  on  his  knee  with  a  forcible  slap,  "Polly 
Mariner  is  a  master-hand  to  speak  in  meetin'  as  ever  I 
see.  Them  is  jest  my  idees  about  the  young  man, 
though  I  shouldn't  never  ha'  ben  so  free-spoken  afore 


POLLY  MARINER,   TAILORESS.  247 

folks  :  'twon't  do  !  Folks  had  oughter  hev  more  cau 
tion,  partikeiiy  ef  they're  deacons.  I  guess  I  shall 
tell  the  brethren' t  I  don't  think  brother  Evarts  is 
equivalent  to  our  work.  Ye  see,  he's  kinder  feeble  ;  an* 
our  congregation  is  dreadful  scattered,  'n'  winter's 
comin'  on,  'n'  so.  Thet's  all  trew ;  an'  it  won't  hurt 
his  feelin's  none,  and'll  fix  it  just  right.  But  I  swan  I 
do  b'lieve  Polly '11  git  into  a  real  fix  some  day,  speakin' 
her  mind." 

"  Law,  no,  she  won't!  "  said  Mrs.  Griswold,  in  the 
intervals  of  her  vigorous  setting  the  kitchen  to  rights 
at  once.  "There  sot  Miss  Peters;  'nd  she's  Parson 
Tinker's  fust-cousin,  'n'  she  jest  larfed.  Nobody  gits 
mad  with  Polly  :  'tain't  no  use.  Why,  I  tried  it  once. 
Fact  is,  I  was  pipin'  mad  when  she  come  out  about 
your  'stillin'  cider-brandy,  'n'  sellin'  it  down  to  the 
corner ;  and  I  give  it  to  her,  I  tell  ye !  But  she  sot 
there  with  her  press-board,  as  composed  as  a  clam, 
a-waitin  till  I  got  through ;  'n'  then  she  sed,  sez  she, 
'  What's  the  use  o'  gettin'  riled,  Miss  Gris'l'd?  'Tis  so, 
a'n't  it? '  Well,  I  couldn't  deny  but  what  it  was  ;  'n' 
then,  come  to  think,  I  knew  I  better  ha'  held  my 
tongue ;  'n'  Polly  was  a-lookin'  at  me  with  them  eyes 
o'  hern,  jest  like  two  gimlets,  and  she  see  I  was  coolin' 
off.  '  I  sha'n't  never  say  nothin'  to  nobody  else  about 
it,'  sez  she,  'now  I've  told  ye,  nor  I  sha'n't  to  you, 
Miss  Gris'l'd.  I've  cleared  my  conscience,  'n'  thet's 
as  far  as  consarns  me :  so  I  guess  we'll  kinder  let  it 
alone  now.'  So  I  did.  She  was  pootty  near  right, 
'n'  I  never  got  mad  with  her  sence.  Fact  is,  besides, 
we've  got  three  boys  ;  'n'  they  get  through  their  coats 
'n'  things  most  amazin'  fast,  and  "  —  with  which  dis 
joined  conjunction  Mrs.  Griswold  stopped,  and  took 
breath. 


248  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  she  is  the  beateree,  uo  doubt  on't,"  rejoined 
the  deacon,  picking  up  his  boots,  and  going  off  to  bed. 

So  Mr.  Evarts  was  not  called  to  Taunton  Street,  but 
wended  his  way  meekly  to  Mount  Holyoke  Seminary, 
married  a  well-recommended  young  person  on  five 
days'  acquaintance,  and  was  forthwith  shipped  to  the 
wildk  of  Southern  Africa,  there  to  learn,  let  us  hope, 
though  by  deadly  experience,  what  preaching  the  gos 
pel  is,  and  what  it  is  good  for. 

Perhaps  the  only  things  that  defied  Polly's  common 
sense  and  experience  were  the  love-affairs,  that  even  in 
hard-working,  unromantic  Taunton,  would  spring  up 
"  even  as  a  flower."  The  little  god  was  no  less  capri 
cious  when  properly  ' '  clothed  upon  ' '  with  good  home 
spun  and  flannel  than  in  his  classic  costume  of  wings 
and  bow.  Alike  in  either  garb,  he  snapped  his  pink 
and  dimpled  fingers  at  the  crabbedness  of  reality  and 
the  warnings  of  sense.  Blessed  little  apostle  of  un 
reason  !  What  a  world  of  solitude  and  tears  we  should 
have,  if  all  the  ineligibles  were  forsaken  in  their  usc- 
lessness,  and  only  the  good,  sweet,  prudent,  and  well- 
dowered  people  got  married !  Here  was  poor  Louisa 
Platt,  daughter  of  the  aforesaid  "Aunt  Sary,"  a  tall, 
weedy,  sallow  girl,  as  became  her  mother's  daughter, 
yet  with  great  eyes,  whose  dark  splendor  blazed  be 
neath  clustering  curls  of  equal  darkness,  and  full  red 
lips,  capable  of  a  sweetness  as  intense  as  their  ordinary 
sullen  droop.  She  had  led,  for  all  her  eighteen  years, 
such  a  life  as  the  sensitive  daughter  of  a  woman  like 
Mrs.  Platt  must  lead.  Constantly  fretted  at,  found 
fault  with,  shut  in,  as  it  were,  in  her  narrow  round  of 
duty,  which  no  tenderness,  no  sympathy,  overflowed, 
with  a  hungry  heart  and  an  active  mind,  no  wonder 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  249 

that  the  first  hand  that  offered  her  food  was  grasped  at 
eagerly ;  no  wonder,  that,  in  her  want  and  ignorance, 
she  glorified  into  a  hero  almost  too  sublime  for  a  hus 
band  Alonzo  Sprague,  clerk  in  the  country  store  at 
the  corner ;  a  youth  whose  adorableness  consisted 
chiefly  in  a  great  deal  of  hair-oil  used  on  his  light 
locks,  an  unlimited  amount  of  simper,  some  fine  lan 
guage,  weak  good- temper,  and  tolerable  manners. 
But  he  loved  "Lowisy,"  as  Taunton  pronunciation 
hath  it,  as  much  as  he  could  love  any  thing  but  himself. 
Her  unequal  but  unusual  beauty,  for  beauty  it  was, 
once  lighted  up  by  fun  or  feeling,  excited  his  admira 
tion  ;  and  her  father's  reputed  "  means  "  enhanced  the 
feeling  to  seriousness,  that  might  otherwise  have  died 
out  like  a  thousand  other  of  his  temporary  loves.  But 
to  such  a  connection  neither  JNlr.  nor  Mrs.  Platt  would 
give  any  countenance. 

ki  Lowisy's  a  fool,  and  you  can  clear  out  o'  my 
premises,  'Lonzo  Sprague!"  was  the  short  and  sharp 
dictum-  of  the  father ;  while  aunt  Sary  overwhelmed 
Louisa  with  a  persistent  flow  of  tears,  reproaches, 
taunts,  sniffs,  and  a  sort  of  mongrel  ridicule  that  had 
in  it  no  glitter  of  humor,  or  spark  of  fun,  but  was 
simply  senseless  chatter.  And  in  the  middle  of  these 
tirades  entered  Polly  Mariner,  shears  and  press-board 
in  hand,  come  to  repair  the  "  trouses "  of  a  small 
Platt ;  for  time  and  necessity  had  long  ago  grown 
grass  over  her  quarrel  with  aunt  Sary ;  and,  beside, 
the  Platt  boys  wore  out  clothes  particularly  fast. 

"Good-mornin',  Miss  Platt!  good-mornin',  Low- 
isy !  "  But  the  girl  burst  into  a  flood  of  passionate 
tears,  welcome  enough  to  her  hot  eyes  and  face,  and 
ran  out  of  the  room,  making  no  reply. 


250  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

••  \Vhat  kettle's  upset  now?  "  inquired  Polly,  making 
herself  at  home  in  a  low  chair,  and  turning  her  sharp 
nose  and  sharper  eyes  toward  Mrs.  Platt. 

"Oh,  dear!"  (rocking  violently)  ^  Lowisy 's  jest 
the  ongratefullest  crittur  in  the  univarse !  Here's  her 
father  an'  me  been  an'  gone  an'  waited  on  her,  and 
fetched  her  up,  and  done  for  her  all  her  days  ;  'n'  now 
jest  as  she's  a-gettin'  good  for  somethin',  she  ups  and 
takes  a  shine  to  that  ninkum  of  a  'Lonzo  Sprague,  'n' 
wants  to  marry  him,  I  hope !  He's  a  poor,  mean, 
shiftless  feller  as  ever  stepped.  He  ha'n't  got  the  fust 
cent  to  call  his  own,  an'  he  never  will  hev ;  'nd  that 
girl  wants  to  leave  a  good  home,  and  me  so  dredful 
miserable,  to  go'n  try  her  fortin'  with  him  !  It's  jest 
my  luck  ! ' ' 

"•  Folks' s  luck  is  generally  their  makin',"  dryly  put 
in  Polly. 

"I  wish't  you'd  give  her  a  piece  o'  your  mind, 
Polly  :  she  don't  seem  to  set  by  what  I  say  to  her  the 
least  mite,  and  you've  allers  had  a  faculty  at  talkin' 
folks  over." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know's  I  hev  got  any  partikler  great 
faculty,"  said  the  secretly-gratified  Polly.  "  I  gener 
ally  tell  folks  the  trewth :  there's  some '11  take  it  in, 
an'  some  won't." 

But  before  dinner  she  got  a  chance,  not  unaided  by 
Mrs.  Platt,  to  tell  Lowisy  the  truth,  or  rather  fling  it 
at  her,  stone  fashion. 

"So,  Lowisy,  I  hear  tell  you've  been  a-takin'  up 
with  'Lonzo  Sprague  down  to  the  corners?  " 

No  answer. 

"  I  should  ha'  thought  you  could  ha'  done  better'n 
that !  He's  a  real  shiftless  feller,  jest  like  his  father 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  251 

afore  him,  and  his  grandfather  afore  that.  I've  allers 
noticed  that  shiftlessness  runs  in  families  pretty  much 
like  scrofooly,  'nd  I  tell  you  there  a'n't  no  harder  row 
to  hoe  than  a  woman's  got  that's  got  a  shif'less  hus 
band.  She  ha'n't,  so  to  speak,  got  nobody.  Fact  is, 
I'd  ruther  have  a  real  sperrity  man,  ef  he  was  real 
ambitious,  than  one  that  didn't  never  fix  up,  nor  pro 
vide,  nor  fly  round  real  spry,  at  least." 

"  What  sort  of  a  husband  was  yours,  Miss  Polly?  " 
interpolated  Louisa,  inspired  by  feminine  instinct.  But 
Polly  was  arrow-proof,  and  put  this  little  shaft  aside. 

"  That  ha'n't  nothin'  to  do  with  it.  I've  got  eyes 
'nd  I've  used  'em  ;  an'  I've  seen  consider'ble  many 
folks,  both  married  an'  single,  sence  I  was  born,  and  I 
know  what  I'm  tellin'  ye.  You'd  better  think  twice 
on't :  you  hev  to  lie  on  a  hard  bed  ef  you  make  it ;  'n' 
when  you're  once  tied  up  to  him,  you  can't  noway  get 
away,  that's  the  worst  on't :  there  you  be,  an'  there 
you'll  hev  to  be  ;  an'  you  may  kick  the  breechin'  to 
bits,  'ud  break  the  bridle ;  but  'twon't  be  no  good, 
the  lines'll  hold  ye." 

This,  as  we  have  said,  was  forty  years  ago,  before 
Connecticut  made  it  'even  an  easier  matter  to  break  the 
marriage-tie  than  to  form  it. 

"I  don't  care  a  mite,  there!"  burst  in  Louisa. 
"  If  I  want  to  marry  a  man  that  a'n't  wicked,  nobody's 
got  any  right  to  say  I  sha'n't,  anyway!"  ante-dating 
the  later  axiom  of  our  New-England  philosopher,  that 
"the  soul  has  inalienable  rights,  and  the  first  of  these 
is  love,  "  in  a  more  lucid  and  practical  form. 

"Mighty  Cesar!"  ejaculated  Polly,  "  ef  you  a'n't 
a  highflyer,  Lowisy  Platt !  Ha'n't  lost  your  senses,  hev 
ye?" 


252  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Guess  I've  got  what' 11  keep  me  alive,"  said  the 
girl,  her  whole  face  settling  down  into  a  sullen  resolu 
tion  that  seemed  to  make  Polly  Mariner's  eurls  crisp 
with  fresh  vigor  as  she  pierced  her  with  the  penetrative 
eyes  beneath  them. 

"Well,"  said  the  astonished  tailoress,  drawing  a 
long  breath  ;  and  that  was  all  she  said.  Here  was  one 
thing  that  surpassed  her  comprehension.  Never  in  all 
the  long  years  of  her  life  had  that  organ  popularly 
supposed  to  be  the  heart  given  within  her  one  unrea 
sonable  flutter ;  no  delicious  folly  had  ever  kissed  her 
eyelids  down,  no  fire  of  passion  ever  kindled  its  resist 
less  blaze  in  her  respectable  bosom.  She  had  but  a 
spare  gift  of  the  gentler  affections  ;  and  here,  flung  in 
her  very  face  like  a  hen  defending  her  brood,  was  an 
inexcusable  foolishness  that  regarded  nothing  beyond 
the  insatiable  hunger  of  the  moment.  Here  was  a  soul 
parched  with  mortal  thirst,  intent  on  slaking  it  from 
the  first  woodside  puddle  ;  and  Polly  had  never  been 
thirsty  —  how  could  she  understand  it?  For  once  her 
spells  had  failed.  Truth  itself  is  powerless  against  love  ; 
and  so  Louisa  Platt  and  her  simpering  lover  made  a 
flitting  over  the  State  line,  happily  not  far  off,  the  first 
moonlight  night,  and,  being  married  in  Massachusetts, 
came  home  to  Taunton,  and  settled  down  to  reality. 

Whether  in  her  future  life,  when  the  little  frame- 
house  swarmed  with  puny  children,  and  Alonzo  devel 
oped  the  hereditary  talent  he  possessed,  and  she  burned 
with  the  fever  of  frequent  headaches,  and  writhed  with 
the  torture  of  a  lame  back,  in  her  hard  but  inevitable 
labor,  Lowisy  ever  wished  in  her  secret  heart  that  she 
had  been  wiser  and  calmer,  or  even  at  the  last  moment 
taken  Polly's  advice,  T  do  not  know  and  cannot  tell ; 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  253 

but  one  thing  I  do  know,  that  Polly  lost  no  opportunity 
to  say,  "  I  told  you  so,"  either  in  word  or  act,  or  by 
significant  words  and  sniffs  that  added  fresh  thorns  to 
poor  Lowisy's  burden,  already  rasping  enough. 

Partly  the  wise  woman  did  this  from  the  natural 
instinct  of  humanity,  partly  to  vindicate  her  own 
superior  wisdom,  and  partly  because,  as  the  cynical 
Frenchman  said,  "there  is  something  pleasant  in  the 
misfortunes  of  our  best  friends,"  —  particularly  when 
we  have  told  them  so. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  one  failure  of  method, 
Polly's  life  went  on  with  its  wonted  usefulness  and 
fearlessness,  year  after  year,  though,  be  it  observed, 
she  never  again  meddled  with  a  love-affair,  observing 
once,  with  a  sniff  of  defiance  and  contempt,  "Them 
that  meddles  with  fools  gets  a  fool's-cap  for  their 
pains,"  apropos  of  somebody  else's  folly  quite  as  bad 
as  Lowisy's. 

Yet  as  the  years  rolled  on,  and  brought  Polly  Mari 
ner  to  the  goodly  age  of  fifty,  she  met  with  one  of 
those  signal  discomfitures  that  now  and  then  befall 
both  the  best  and  the  wisest,  —  oftener,  perhaps,  befall 
women  than  men,  by  reason  of  that  lack  of  poise,  of 
caution,  of  far-seeing,  that  is  characteristic  of  the 
feminine  mind.  Strange  enough  it  was  that  Polly, 
who  had  so  successfully  engineered  the  affairs  of  other 
people  so  long,  should  at  last  make  a  fatal  and  ludi 
crous  blunder  in  her  own  ;  but  it  was,  after  all,  the 
gradual  result  of  a  process  like  that  which  loosens  and 
disintegrates  the  base  of  a  granite  bowlder,  and  sends  it 
slipping  with  still  accelerated  impetus  down  the  grassy 
slope  where  it  has  reposed  so  long.  In  fact,  Polly  was 
an  illustration  of  that  great  law,  "  the  eternal  fitness  of 


254  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOES. 

things,"  in  the  result  of  its  infraction.  In  spite  of  her 
strength,  her  courage,  her  self-assertion,  her  rage  for 
independence,  she  was,  after  all,  a  woman  ;  and  she  is 
not  a  woman,  but  an  anomaly,  if  not  a  monster,  who 
can  wear  out  a  long  life  of  social  solitude  with  no 
quiver  of  failing  resolution,  no  sinking  of  heart.  To 
be  a  woman  without  a  home,  without  a  family  where 
she  is  at  least  dear  and  necessary,  if  not  supreme,  is  to 
be  a  dweller  in  the  desert,  lost  and  famished  ;  if  not 
in  the  bright  days  of  youth  and  strength,  yet  at  least 
when  the  feebler  pulses  and  the  more  faithful  heart 
demand  help  and  consolation  against  the  desolation  of 
age  and  the  hour  of  death.  And  slowly,  as  time  laid 
one  finger  after  another  on  her  life  ;  as  her  eyes  became 
dim,  none  the  less  that  she  brandished  her  new  specta 
cles  defiantly  before  everybody,  as  if  they  had  been 
an  ornament  instead  of  a  necessary  aid  ;  as  she  began 
to  find  her  active  limbs  stiffen  with  every  winter's  frost, 
and  her  quick  ears  lose  their  acuteness  of  hearing ; 
when  it  grew  a  weariness  and  a  burden  to  go  home  to 
her  own  solitary  house  at  night,  unlock  the  door,  kindle 
the  fire,  and  sit  down  beside  it,  tired  and  depressed, 
with  not  even  a  cat  to  purr  under  her  hand, — Polly 
began,  no  doubt,  to  feel  what  Rachel  Green  had  said 
to  her  long  before,  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone,  nor  woman  either. 

Now  there  lived  on  Taunton  Hill,  on  a  road  running 
at  right  angles  from  the  street,  a  certain  elderly  man, 
long  time  a  widower,  whose  name  was  Timothy  Bunce. 
He  was  not  a  favorite  in  the  village,  being  somewhat 
simple  in  mind,  but  crabbed  in  manner :  not  that  he 
really  was  cross-grained  ;  but  he  was  weak,  and  knew 
it,  and  defended  himself  with  such  weapons  as  he  had 


POLLY  MARINER,   TAILORESS.  255 

against  his  craftier  and  stronger  brethren.  But  he 
had  a  good  farm,  and  money  in  the  bank,  and  every 
thing  comfortable  about  him  ;  his  cows  were  sleek,  and 
his  fowls  abundant ;  his  crops  always  fair,  if  not  re 
markable.  And  to  a  stranger  it  seemed  odd  enough 
that  no  woman  had  stormed  his  castle,  and  taken  pos 
session  of  him  and  his  long  ago.  But,  beside  Timothy 
Bunce's  weakness  and  snappishness,  there  was  one 
thing  that  separated  him  yet  more  widely  from  the 
Taunton  people :  he  was  an*  Episcopalian.  He  was 
not  born  or  "raised"  in  Taunton,  where  everybody 
that  could  go  anywhere  went  duly  to  the  big  white 
meeting-house,  and  took  in  pure  Calvinism  with  un 
questioning  simplicity.  He  had  gone  from  a  neighbor 
ing  village  to  the  city  early  in  life,  and  there  fallen 
into  what  Taunton  held  to  be  the  wrong  religion  and 
wrong  politics.  And  when  he  had  amassed  some 
money,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he  bought  this  farm  on  the 
hill,  and  toek  up  his  abode  there,  religion,  politics, 
and  all,  clinging  to  his  old  ideas  simply  because  he  had 
not  wish  or  will  to  change  them. 

He  had  always  had  a  niece  to  keep  house  with  him  ; 
but,  a  few  weeks  before  he  fell  into  collision  with  Polly, 
the  niece  had  died,  and  left  him  in  a  peculiarly  helpless 
and  friendless  condition,  which  was  fully  discussed  in 
and  about  Taunton,  not  only  as  to  its  present  wants, 
but  their  prospective  supply.  But  nobody  seemed  to 
suggest  just  the  right  thing :  in  fact,  nobody  thought 
of  Polly  as  a  person  attainable  to  fill  Mary  Ann  Bunce's 
place.  She  was  altogether  too  important  to  the  town. 
But  in  Polly's  mind  there  was  a  certain  stir  of  expecta 
tion,  a  balancing  of  probabilities,  an  appraisement,  as 
it  were,  of  what  was  and  what  might  be,  that  prepared 


256  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

her  to  receive  a  call  from  Mr.  Bunce  with  a  proper 
degree  of  composure,  and  to  show  no  signs  of  its 
unexpectedness. 

It  was  late  Sunday  afternoon  ;  and  Polly  sat  by  the 
open  door  of  her  clean  kitchen,  rocking  placidly.  All 
her  belongings  were  as  spotless  and  orderly  as  ever. 
She  herself  looked,  in  her  Sunday  gown  of  black  silk, 
something  softer  than  usual.  Age  had  not  changed  her, 
except  to  a  kindlier  aspect ;  a  little  threading  of  silver 
in  the  black  curls,  less  fire  in  the  blacker  eyes,  less 
snap  and  crackle  in  her  movements  and  her  voice  :  yes, 
Polly  wras  really  mitigated ;  and  when  she  said  to  Tim 
Bunce,  "Set  down,  set  down,  Mr.  Bunce,  take  this 
cheer,"  there  was  something  almost  like  suavityin  her 
tones. 

Timothy  sat  down.  He  was  a  little  man,  and  in 
bodily  presence  contemptible  enough.  His  narrow  face, 
wandering  blue  eyes,  sleek  and  scanty  light  hair,  the 
very  crack  in  his  voice,  bespoke  him  a  weak  brother. 
And  yet  he  considered  himself  able  to  control  and 
direct  any  woman  on  earth,  regarding  them  as  inferior 
creatures,  useful  about  a  house,  as  others  have  done 
before  him.  But  Polly's  aspect,  exceptionally  subdued 
as  it  was  when  he  encountered  it  alone,  rather  daunted 
him.  He  began  to  stroke  his  hair  nervously,  to  roll 
his  eyes  about  like  a  timid  rabbit,  to  clear  his  throat, 
and  fidget  on  his  chair,  —  symptoms  which  Polly 
regarded  with  a  critical  eye,  and  judged  favorable. 

"  Well'm,  Miss  Poll}7."  at  last  he  stammered, 
"  pretty  good  weather  for  corn." 

"  Well,  yes  'tis,  dredful  growthy  kind  o'  weather 
for  most  any  thing  :  garden  sass  seems  to  be  partiker- 
lerly  favored  this  year." 


POLLY   MARINER,    TAILORESS.  257 


"  Doos,  doos  it?  I  should  think  so  by  the  look  o' 
yourn.  Quite  a  hand  with  a  garden  you  be,  I  guess." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Some  hes  faculty,  an'  some 
hesn't." 

' '  Mary  Ann  she  was  a  masterpiece  of  a  gardener. 
I  don't  reelly  know  how  to  git  along  without  her." 

"It  was  quite  an  affliction  for  ye.  I  should  think' t 
you'd  miss  her  a  heap." 

"I  do,  reelly  now:  I  miss  her  considerable.  Seems 
as  though  I  couldn't  get  along  no  longer  'thout  some 
body."  Here  Timothy  happened  to  look  sidewise,  and 
caught  those  black  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  unwinking 
sternness,  and  his  own  rolled  fearfully :  the  ground 
seemed  uncertain  under  his  feet.  He  was  scared  ;  but 
he  went  on,  "Fact  is,  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could 
stan'  much  more  on't.  Mary  Ann  she'd  lived  to  our 
house  a  spell  along  back  afore  Miss  Bunce  died,  so't 
she  staid  right  along  'n'  did  for  me,  'nd  I  didn't  feel  so 
kinder  lost  without  Miss  Bunce  as  I  should  hev  other 
wise  ;  but  now  I  do,  I  tell  ye.  And  I've  heered  a  lot 
about  how  dredful  smart  you  be,  and  knowin'  ;  and  I 
stepped  over  to  see  ef  mebbe  you'd  take  her  place." 
(O  Timothy,  Timothy !  your  last  proper  noun  was 
"Miss  Bunce;"  and  Polly  knew  it,  though  you 
didn't.)  "  I'd  fix  up  the  haouse  'nd  I'd  "  - 

Polly  never  let  a  driven  nail  go  uncliuched.  Some 
vague  instinct  of  femininity  made  her  drop  her  eyes, 
but  she  spoke.  "I  d'clare  for't !  Mr.  Bunce,  you 
hev  took  me  clean  by  surprise.  I  hadn't  never  thought 
changin'  my  condition  ' ' 

' l  Oh  ! ' '  gasped  Timothy,  turning  red  and  blue  ;  but 
she  did  not  hear  or  see  him. 

"  But  seem'  you're  so  kind,  and  your  loiiesomeness, 


258  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

'nd  all,  I  don't  know  but  what  I'd  as  lives  merry  you 
as  the  next  one." 

"  O-h  !  "  gasped  Timothy  again  ;    "  oh,  dear  !     I  — 
I  — I  didn't,  o-h!" 

"Why,  suthin'  ails  ye,  don't  there?  'Pears  as  ef 
you  was  overcome  :  'tis  kind  of  a  try  in'  time.  Won't 
ye  hev  some  peppermint  ?  ' ' 

Timothy  sat  with  both  hands  on  his  knees,  convulsed 
with  rage  and  terror.  Perhaps  she  would  marry  him 
then  and  there,  in  spite  of  him,  and  carry  him  home 
in  triumph  ;  and  his  dry  tongue  refused  more  words. 

"Now,  do  hev  some,  or  smell  to  the  camphire. 
Time  you  had  a  wife  to  look  after  ye.  I  understand 
fits  real  well." 

' '  O — h  ! ' '  shrieked  Timothy,  rising  to  his  tottering 
feet  in  fresh  fury  that  loosed  his  speech.  "I  didn't! 
I  don't !  I  a'u't  a-goin'  to.  I  didn't  say  nothin' 
about  marryin'.  I  won't,  I  don't  want  to." 

Polly  was  purple  herself  now  :  her  eyes  snapped  like 
sparks,  her  nose  went  up  higher  yet  in  the  air,  her  chin 
quivered,  the  very  curls  on  her  head  seemed  to  bristle. 
She  was  a  spectacle  of  terror  to  Timothy,  who  literally 
shook  in  his  shoes. 

"Well,  I  should  think!  You  pitiful  little  rat,  't 
can't  hardly  squeak  in  your  own  barn,  a-comin'  round 
me,  a  respectable  woman,  to  make  me  your  music ! 
Fust  a-askin'  of  me  plain  as  a  pikestaff  to  marry  ye, 
'nd  then  a-backin'  out  oii't  right  off !  You're  the 
meanest  critter  the  Lord  ever  made,  'nd  I  guess  you 
teas  made  out  o'  the  bits  'nd  ends  that  was  left.  I 
wouldn't  pick  ye  out  o'  the  dirt  with  the  tongs  !  " 

"  I  didn't,  I  didn't ;  oh  !  I  didn't.  I  never  thought 
on't.  I  don't  want  to." 


POLLY  MARINER,    TATLORESS.  259 

"  Now  go  to  lyin',  will  ye?  "  ejaculated  Polly,  calm 
with  excess  of  anger,  like  a  buzz-saw,  and  equally 
dangerous.  "Hain't  I  got  ears?  'nd  didn't  I  hear 
ye  ask  me  to  take  Miss  Bunce's  place  jest  as  plain  as 
the  nose  on  your  little  sneakin'  face,  that's  most  all 
nose  ? ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  didn't !  "  reiterated  the  abject  and  thoroughly 
terrified  Timothy.  "  I  didn't !  I  never  !  I  said  Mary 
Ann." 

"Well,  keep  on  a-lyin',  do!  I  might  ha'  know'd 
there  wan't  no  good  in  ye,  —  nothin'  but  a  'Piscopalian 
anyhow  !  Don't  know  enough  to  say  your  own  prayers. 
What  the  Lord  above  made  'Piscopalians  and  muskee- 
ters  for  I  doiCt  know,  'xcept  to  keep  up  an  everlastin' 
buzz  :  they  hain't  nyther  on  'em  got  souls  thet's  worth 
savin',  nor  bodies  enough  to  hold  'em  if  they  hed. 
Come!"  Polly  advanced  in  wrath.  "Clear  out  o' 
my  house  !  Quit,  afore  I  ketch  ye  by  the  back  o'  your 
neck,  'nd  drop  ye  out  o'  the  window.  Clear,  I  say  !  " 

A  whole  troop  could  not  have  alarmed  the  luckless 
Timothy  more.  Snatching  up  his  hat  from  the  floor,  he 
fled,  ejaculating  as  he  went,  in  broken  accents,  — 

"  O  Lord  !  Oh,  my  !  Good  Lord,  deliver  us  from  all 
—  Oh,  darn  this  gate  !  Thunder  —  oh,"  far  into  the 
distance,  finding,  poor  fellow,  nowhere  in  the  Litany, 
which  involuntarily  sprung  to  his  lips,  a  petition  for 
deliverance  from  furies  or  old  maids. 

Polly  sank  into  her  chair,  breathless.  For  a  while 
the  excitement  of  rage  supported  her,  then  came  the 
bitter  after-taste  of  mortification  and  disappointment. 
As  she  sat  in  her  door,  the  melancholy  range  of  bare 
hills  that  lay  before  her  sent  unawares  a  chill  into  her 
heart.  Polly  was  not  ordinarily  sensitive  to  Nature : 


260  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

but  Nature,  like  air  and  love,  acts  upon  us  without  our 
consciousness  or  connivance ;  and  the  sad  peace  of 
those  rolling  summits,  the  plaintive  quiet  that  settled 
round  closing  day,  all  the  solitary  depths  of  the  sum 
mer  sky,  untroubled  with  one  spark  as  yet,  seemed  to 
close  about  the  exasperated  and  lonely  woman  like  the 
walls  of  a  cloister,  and  sink  deeper  into  her  soul  the 
conviction  that  for  her  there  was  no  centre,  no  home. 
It  may  do  for  men  to  live  their  own  lives,  and  die  alone, 
with  the  courage  or  the  stoicism  that  is  their  birthright, 
but  not  for  women.  The  strongest,  the  best,  the  most 
audaciously  independent  of  us,  will  be  conscious,  as 
age  assaults  us,  of  our  weakness  and  helplessness,  — 
bitterly  conscious  if  we  are  solitary. 

Polly's  mood  of  regret  and  bitterness  was  new  to 
her,  and  exquisitely  painful ;  but  at  last  slie  roused  her 
self  from  it,  growling,  as  she  went  about  her  work  for 
the  night,  — 

"  Well,  he  was  a  fool,  that's  a  fact,  'nd  I  was  con 
sider' ble  of  one  myself ;  but  I  skeered  him  mightily, 
anyhow." 

Neither  of  the  parties  cared  to  tell  the  tale  of  their 
mutual  discomfiture.  But  Timothy  sold  his  farm,  and 
removed  to  the  wilds  of  Vermont,  haunted  by  the  fear 
of  Polty  Mariner  ;  and  people  noticed,  as  years  passed, 
that  Polly  grew  less  and  less  aggressive,  even  more 
friendly.  She  spared  and  pinched  and  saved,  till 
there  was  enough  laid  up  in  the  Folland  Bank  to  give 
her  rest  in  her  last  days  ;  but  rest  she  could  not  take. 
Action  was  the  breath  of  her  existence  ;  and,  happily 
for  her,  a  sharp  and  brief  fever  ended  her  long  and 
busy  life  :  a  decline  would  have  tortured  her  both  in 
her  own  incapacity  and  that  of  any  available  help. 


POLLY  MARINER,   TAILORESS.  261 

But  for  a  few  days  of  delirium  and  UD  consciousness 
there  was  resource  enough  in  neighborly  kindness  ;  and 
Rachel  Green,  herself  lingering  on  the  verge  of  her 
days,  but  sweeter  and  gentler  than  ever,  came  and 
staid  to  superintend  the  nursing  she  was  unable  to  do  ; 
while  "Aunt  Hanner  Bliss,"  the  only  professional 
nurse  for  miles  about,  was  sent  for,  and  installed  as  the 
doctor's  aid,  and  at  times  substitute,  since  a  country 
doctor  must  needs  be  ' '  here  and  there  and  every 
where." 

At  last,  worn  with  the  cruel  violence  of  fever,  Polly 
woke  from  her  delirium  weaker  than  a  child,  but  clear 
headed  as  ever :  her  eyes  fell  first  on  Rachel  Green's 
calm  face,  where  the  very  peace  of  heaven  seemed 
almost  dawning. 

"Well,  Miss  Green,  I'm  a  dredful  sick  woman,  I 
guess." 

"Thee  has  had  a  severe  fever,  Polly,  and  it  is  not 
over  yet. ' ' 

There  was  something  ominous  in  the  sad  tenderness 
of  the  old  lady's  voice,  that  struck  Polly :  a  strange 
look  passed  over  her  countenance  as  this  shock  of  an 
untried  and  awful  experience  stared  her  inevitably  in 
the  face  ;  and  her  voice  was  even  feebler  and  more 
quivering  when  she  spoke  again. 

"  Struck  with  death  I  be,  a'n't  I?  " 

"Thee  is  almost  home,  Polly,"  softly  replied 
Rachel. 

"  Home  ?  "  said  she  vaguely  !  "  oh,  dear  !  "  and  then, 
rousing  herself,  "I  hain't  never  had  a  home.  Miss 
Green,  do  you  rek'lect  what  you  sed  to  me  quite  a 
number  of  years  ago?  Well,  I'd  ha'  done  better  ef  I'd 
ha'  done  your  way.  'Tain't  more'n  honest  to  tell  ye 


262  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

I've  hankered  after  a  home  'n'  folks  o'  my  own  many 
a  time  since ;  but  I  wouldn't  tell  on't :  'nd  now  I'm 
a-dyin',  so  to  speak,  by  myself  —  or  I  should,  ef 
'twa'n't  for  you." 

"Anyhow,"  said  Aunt  Hanner,  with  the  skill  and 
experience  of  one  of  those  Spanish  nurses  who  thrust 
their  elbows  into  the  stomachs  of  the  dying  to  shorten 
their  agonies,  —  "anyhow,  ef  you  hain't  got  nobody 
to  cry  for  you,  you  hain't  got  nobody  to  cry  for,  'nd 
you've  hed  your  way." 

"  Folks 's  way  is  worse'n  the  want  on't,"  whispered 
Polly.  They  were  her  last  words.  The  death-mist 
passed,  and  settled  upon  her  sunken  features,  as  Rachel 
Green  stooped  over  her,  saying  low  and  clear,  — 

"'As  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth,  so  will  I 
comfort  you,'  saith  the  Lord  of  hosts." 

Two  tears,  the  first  and  last  that  mortal  ever  saw  her 
shed,  stole  gently  out  of  Polly's  closed  eyelids :  she 
smiled  —  and  died. 


UNCLE   JOSH. 

JOSH  CRANE  was  a  Yankee  born  and  bred,  a  farmer 
on  Plainfield  Hill,  and  a  specimen.  If  some  strange 
phrases  were  grafted  on  his  New-England  vernacular, 
it  was  because,  for  fifteen  years  of  his  youth,  he  had 
followed  the  sea ;  and  the  sea,  to  return  the  compli 
ment,  thereafter  followed  him. 

His  father,  old  Josh  Crane,  kept  the  Sanbury  grist 
mill,  and  was  a  drunken,  shiftless  old  creature,  who 
ended  his  days  in  a  tumble-down  red  house  a  mile  below 
Plainfield  Centre,  being  "took  with  the  tremens,"  as 
black  Peter  said  when  he  came  for  the  doctor,  —  all  too 
late  ;  for  the  ' '  tremens  ' '  had  indeed  taken  him  off. 

Mrs.  Crane,  our  Josh's  mother,  was  one  of  those 
calm,  meek,  patient  creatures,  by  some  inscrutable 
mystery  always  linked  to  such  men  ;  ' '  martyrs  by  the 
pang  without  the  palm,"  of  whom  a  noble  army  shall 
yet  rise  out  of  New  England's  desolate  valleys  and 
melancholy  hills  to  take  their  honor  from  the  Master's 
hand.  For  years  this  woman  lived  alone  with  her 
child  in  the  shattered  red  house,  spinning,  knitting, 
washing,  sewing,  scrubbing,  to  earn  bread  and  water, 
sometimes  charity-fed,  but  never  failing  at  morning 
and  night,  with  one  red  and  knotted  hand  upon  her 
boy's  white  hair,  and  the  other  on  her  worn  Bible,  to 
pray,  with  an  intensity  that  boy  never  forgot,  for  his 

263 


264  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

well-being  for  ever  and  ever :  for  herself  she  never 
prayed  aloud. 

Then  came  the  country's  pestilence,  consumption ; 
and  after  long  struggles,  relapses,  rallies,  —  all  received 
in  the  same  calm  patience, — Hetty  Crane  died  in  a 
summer's  night,  her  little  boy  asleep  beside  her,  and 
a  whippoorwill  on  the  apple-tree  by  the  door  sounding 
on  her  flickering  sense  the  last  minor  note  of  life. 

When  Josh  woke  up,  and  knew  his  mother  was  dead, 
he  did  not  behave  in  the  least  like  good  little  boys  in 
books,  but  dressed  himself  without  a  tear  or  a  sob,  and 
ran  for  the  nearest  neighbor. 

"  Sakes  alive!"  said  "Miss"  Ranney.  "I  never 
did  see  sech  a  cretur  as  that  are  boy  in  all  my  days ! 
He  never  said  nothin'  to  me  when  he  came  to  our 
folks's,  only  jest,  '  Miss  Ranney,  I  guess  you'd  better 
come  cross  lots  to  see  mother :  she  don't  seem  to  be 
alive."  —"Dew  tell!"  sez  I.  An'  so  I  slipt  on  my 
Shaker  bunnet  jist  as  quick's  I  could  ;  but  he  was  off, 
spry's  a  cricket,  an'  when  I  got  there  he  was  a-settin' 
the  room  to  rights.  He'd  spunked  up  a  fire,  and  hung 
on  the  kittle  :  so  I  sed  nothin',  but  stept  along  inter  the 
bedroom,  and  turned  down  the  kiver,  and  gin  a  little 
screech,  I  was  so  beat ;  for,  sure  enough,  Hetty  Crane 
was  dead  an'  cold.  Josh  he  heerd  me,  for  he  was 
clos't  onto  me  ;  and  he  never  spoke,  but  he  come  up 
to  the  bed,  and  he  put  his  head  down,  and  laid  his  cheek 
right  along  hers  (and  'twau't  no  redder' n  her'n),  an' 
staid  so  'bout  a  iniunit ;  then  he  cleared  out,  and  I 
never  see  him  no  more  all  day.  But  Miss  Good' in  she 
come  in  ;  and  she  said  he'd  stopped  there,  an'  sent 
her  over. 

"Well,  we  laid  out  Hetty,  and  fixed  up  the  house, 


UNCLE   JOSH.  265 

and  put  up  a  curtain  to  her  winder.  And  Miss  Good' in 
she  'n'  I  calkerlated  to  set  up  all  night ;  and  we  was 
jest  puttin'  a  mess  of  tea  to  draw,  so's  to  keep  lively, 
when  in  come  Josh,  drippiu'  wet ;  for  the  dews  was 
dreadful  heavy  them  August  nights.  And  he  said 
nothin'  more'n  jest  to  answer  when  he  was  spoke  to. 
And  Miss  Good 'in  was  a  real  feelin'  woman :  she 
guessed  he'd  better  be  let  alone.  So  he  drink't  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  then  he  started  off  into  the  bedroom ;  and 
when  she  went  in  there,  'long  towards  midnight,  there 
he  was,  fast  asleep  on  the  bed  beside  of  the  corpse,  as 
straight  as  a  pin,  only  holdin'  on  to  one  of  its  hands. 
Miss  Good' in  come  back  cryin'  ;  and  I  thought  I 
should  'a'  boo-hooed  right  out.  But  I  kinder  strangled 
it  down,  and  we  set  to  work  to  figger  out  what  was 
a-goin'  to  be  done  with  the  poor  little  chap.  That 
house  of  their 'n  that  old  Josh  had  bought  of  Mr. 
Eanney  hadn't  never  been  paid  for,  only  the  interest- 
money  whenever  Miss  Crane  could  scrape  it  up,  so't 
that  would  go  right  back  into  husband's  hands  ;  an' 
they  hadn't  got  no  cow,  nor  no  pig  ;  and  we  agreed  the 
s'lectmen  would  hev'  to  take  him,  and  bind  him  out. 

"I  allers  mistrusted  that  he'd  waked  up,  and  heerd 
what  we  said  ;  for  next  morning,  when  we  went  to  call 
him,  he  was  gone,  and  his  shirts  an'  go-to-meetin's 
too ;  and  he  never  come  back  to  the  funeral,  nor  a 
good  spell  after. 

"  I  know,  after  Hetty  was  buried,  and  we'd  resolved 
to  sell  what  things  she  had  to  get  her  a  head-stone,  — 
for  Mr.  Ranney  wouldn't  never  put  in  for  the  rest  of  his 
interest  money,  —  I  took  home  her  old  Bible,  and  kep' 
it  for  Josh  ;  and  the  next  time  I  see  him  was  five  and 
twenty  years  after,  when  he  come  back  from  sea-farm'. 


266  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

an'  settled  down  to  farmin'  on't.  And  he  sot  by  that 
Bible  a  dredful  sight,  I  expect :  for  he  gin  our  Sail  the 
brightest  red-an'-yeller  bandanner  you  ever  see ;  she 
used  to  keep  it  to  take  to  meetin'." 

"  Miss  "  Ranney  was  certainly  right  in  her  "  guess." 
Josh  had  heard  in  that  miserable  midnight  the  discus 
sion  of  his  future,  and,  having  a  well-founded  dread 
of  the  selectmen's  tender-mercies,  had  given  a  last 
caress  to  his  dead  mother,  and  run  away  to  Boston, 
where  he  shipped  for  a  whaling- voyage ;  was  cast 
away  on  the  Newfoundland  shore  after  ten  years  of 
sea-life ;  and  being  at  that  time  a  stout  youth  of 
twenty,  sick  of  his  seamanship,  he  had  hired  himself  to 
work  in  a  stone-yard ;  and,  by  the  time  he  was  thirty- 
five,  had  laid  up  enough  money  to  return  a  thrifty 
bachelor,  and,  buying  a  little  farm  on  Plainfield  Hill, 
settle  down  to  his  ideal  of  life,  and  become  the  amuse 
ment  of  part  of  the  village,  and  the  oracle  of  the  rest. 

We  boys  adored  Uncle  Josh ;  for  he  was  always 
ready  to  rig  our  boats,  spin  us  yarns  a  week  long,  and 
fill  our  pockets  with  apples  red  and  russet  as  his  own 
honest  face.  With  the  belles  of  the  village  Uncle 
Josh  had  no  such  favor.  He  would  wear  a  pigtail,  in 
spite  of  scoff  and  remonstrance ;  he  would  smoke  a 
cutty-pipe  ;  and  he  did  swear  like  a  sailor,  from  mere 
habit  and  forgetfulness,  for  no  man  not  professedly 
religious  had  a  diviner  instinct  of  reverence  and  wor 
ship  than  he.  But  it  was  as  instinctive  in  him  to  swear 
as  it  was  to  breathe ;  and  some  of  our  boldly  specula 
tive  and  law-despising  youngsters  held  that  it  was  no 
harm  in  him,  any  more  than  "  gosh  "  and  "  thunder" 
were  in  us,  for  really  he  meant  no  more. 

However,  Uncle  Josh  did  not  quite  reciprocate  the 


UNCLE  JOSH.  267 

contempt  of  the  sex.  Before  long  he  began  to  make 
Sunday-night  visitations  at  Deacon  Stone's,  to  "  brush 
his  hat  o'  mornings,"  to  step  spry,  and  wear  a  stiff 
collar  and  stock,  instead  of  the  open  tie  he  had  kept, 
with  the  pigtail,  long  after  jacket  and  tarpaulin  had 
been  dismissed  the  service  :  so  the  village  directly  dis 
covered  that  Josh  Crane  was  courting  the  school-mis 
tress,  "  Miss  Eunice,"  who  boarded  at  Deacon  Stone's. 
What  Miss  Eunice's  surname  might  be,  I  never  knew  ; 
nor  did  it  much  matter.  She  was  the  most  kindly, 
timid,  and  lovable  creature  that  ever  tried  to  reduce  a 
district  school  into  manners  and  arithmetic.  She  lives 
in  my  memory  still,  —  a  tall,  slight  figure,  with  tender 
brown  eyes  and  a  sad  face,  its  broad,  lovely  forehead 
shaded  with  silky  light  hair,  and  her  dress  always  dim- 
tinted, —  faded  perhaps, — but  scrupulously  neat  and 
stable. 

Everybody  knew  why  Miss  Eunice  looked  so  meekly 
sad,  and  why  she  was  still  "Miss"  Eunice:  she  had 
been  "  disapp'inted."  She  had  loved  a  man  better 
than  he  loved  her,  and  therein,  copying  the  sweet 
angels,  made  a  fatal  mistake,  broke  her  girl's  heart, 
and  went  to  keeping  school  for  a  living. 

All  the  young  people  pitied  and  patronized  her ;  all 
the  old  women  agreed  that  she  was  ' '  a  real  clever  little 
fool ; ' '  and  men  regarded  her  with  a  species  of  wonder 
and  curiosity,  first  for  having  a  breakable  heart,  and 
next  for  putting  that  member  to  fatal  harm  for  one 
of  their  kind.  But  boys  ranked  Miss  Eunice  even 
above  Uncle  Josh ;  for  there  lives  in  boys  a  certain 
kind  of  chivalry,  before  the  world  has  sneered  it  out  of 
them,  that  regards  a  sad  or  injured  woman  as  a  crea 
ture  claiming  all  their  care  and  protection.  And  it  was 


268  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

with  a  thrill  of  virtuous  indignation  that  we  heard 
of  Josh  Crane's  intentions  toward  Miss  Eunice ;  nor 
were  we  very  pitiful  of  our  old  friend,  when  Mrs. 
Stone  announced  to  old  Mrs.  Ranney  (who  was  deaf 
as  a  post,  and  therefore  very  useful,  passively,  in 
spreading  news  confided  to  her,  as  this  was  in  the 
church-porch),  that  "Miss  Eunice  wa'n't  a-goin'  to 
hev'  Josh  Crane,  'cause  he  wa'n't  a  professor;  but 
she  didn't  want  nobody  to  tell  on't :  "  so  everybody 
did. 

It  was,  beside,  true.  Miss  Eunice  was  a  sincerely 
religious  woman  ;  and  though  Josh  Crane's  simple,  fer 
vent  love-making  had  stirred  a  thrill  within  her  she 
had  thought  quite  impossible,  still  she  did  not  think  it 
was  right  to  marry  an  irreligious  man,  and  she  told 
him  so  with  a  meek  firmness  that  quite  broke  down 
poor  Uncle  Josh,  and  he  went  back  to  his  farming  with 
profounder  respect  than  ever  for  Miss  Eunice,  and  a 
miserable  opinion  of  himself. 

But  he  was  a  person  without  guile  of  any  sort.  He 
would  have  cut  off  his  pigtail,  sold  his  tobacco-keg, 
tried  not  to  swear,  for  her  sake  ;  but  he  could  not  pre 
tend  to  be  pious,  and  he  did  not. 

A  year  or  two  afterward,  however,  when  both  had 
quite  got  past  the  shyness  of  meeting,  and  set  aside,  if 
not  forgotten,  the  past,  there  was  a  revival  of  religion 
in  Plainfield ;  no  great  excitement,  but  a  quiet  spring- 
ing-up  of  "good  seed"  sown  in  past  generations,  it 
may  be  ;  and  among  the  softened  hearts  and  moist  eyes 
were  those  of  Uncle  Josh.  His  mother's  prayers 
had  slept  in  the  leaves  of  his  mother's  Bible,  and  now 
they  awoke  to  be  answered. 

It  was  strangely  touching,  even  to  old  Parson  Pitcher, 


UNCLE   JOSH.  269 

long  used  to  such  interviews  with  the  oddest  of  all  peo 
ple  under  excitement,  — rugged  New-Englanders,  —  to 
see  the  simple  pathos  that  vivified  Uncle  Josh's  story 
of  his  experience  ;  and  when,  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence 
about  his  dead  mother,  and  her  petitions  for  his  safety, 
with  tears  dripping  down  both  cheeks,  he  burst  into  a 
hallelujah  metre  tune,  adapting  the  words,  — 

"Though  seed  lie  buried  long  in  dust,"  &c., 

and  adding  to  the  diversity  of  rhythm  the  discordance 
of  his  sea-cracked  voice,  it  was  a  doubtful  matter  to 
Parson  Pitcher  whether  he  should  laugh  or  cry ;  and 
he  was  forced  to  compromise  with  a  hysterical  snort, 
just  as  Josh  brought  out  the  last  word  of  the  verse  on 

a  powerful  fugue,  — 

"Cro-o-o-o-op!" 

So  earnest  and  honest  was  he,  that,  for  a  whole  week 
after  he  had  been  examined  and  approved  by  the 
church  committee  as  a  probationer,  he  never  once 
thought  of  Miss  Eunice ;  when  suddenly,  as  he  was 
reading  his  Bible,  and  came  across  the  honorable  men 
tion  of  that  name  by  the  apostle,  he  recollected,  with  a 
sort  of  shamefaced  delight,  that  now,  perhaps,  she 
would  have  him.  So,  with  no  further  ceremony  than 
reducing  his  gusty  flax-colored  hair  to  order  by  means 
of  a  pocket-comb,  and  washing  his  hands  at  the  pump, 
away  he  strode  to  the  schoolhouse,  where  it  was  Miss 
Eunice's  custom  to  linger  after  school  till  her  fire  was 
burnt  low  enough  to  "  rake  up." 

J  osh  looked  in  at  the  window  as  he  "  brought  to ' ' 
(in  his  own  phrase)  "alongside  the  school'us,"  and 
there  sat  the  lady  of  his  love  knitting  a  blue  stocking, 
with  an  empty  chair  most  propitiously  placed  beside 


270  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOES. 

her  in  front  of  the  fireplace.  Josh's  heart  rose  up 
mightily  ;  but  he  knocked  as  little  a  knock  as  his  great 
knuckles  could  effect,  was  bidden  in,  and  sat  himself 
clown  on  the  chair  in  a  paroxysm  of  bashfulness, 
nowise  helped  by  Miss  Eunice's  dropped  eyes  and  per 
sistent  knitting.  So  he  sat  full  fifteen  minutes,  every 
now  and  then  clearing  his  throat  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
introduce  the  point,  till  at  length,  desperate  enough, 
he  made  a  dash  into  the  middle  of  things,  and  bubbled 
over  with,  "  Miss  Eunice,  I've  got  religion!  I'm  sot 
out  for  to  be  a  real  pious  man.  Can't  you  feel  to 
hev'  me  now  ?  ' ' 

What  Miss  Eunice's  little  trembling  lips  answered, 
I  cannot  say :  but  I  know  it  was  satisfactory  to  Josh ; 
for  his  first  reverent  impulse,  after  he  gathered  up  her 
low  words,  was  to  clasp  his  hands,  and  say,  "Amen," 
as  if  somebody  had  asked  a  blessing.  Perhaps  he  felt 
he  had  received  one  in  Miss  Eunice. 

When  spring  came  they  were  married,  and  were 
happy,  Yankee  fashion,  without  comment  or  demon 
stration,  but  very  happy.  Uncle  Josh  united  with  the 
church,  and  was  no  disgrace  to  his  profession  save 
and  except  in  one  thing,  —  he  would  swear.  Vainly 
did  deacons,  brethren,  and  pastor  assail  him  with 
exhortation,  remonstrance,  and  advice ;  vainly  did  his 
meek  wife  look  at  him  with  pleading  eyes  ;  vainly  did 
he  himself  repent  and  strive  and  watch :  ' '  the  stump 
of  Dagon  remained,"  and  was  not  to  be  easily  up 
rooted. 

At  length  Parson  Pitcher,  being  greatly  scandalized 
at  Josh's  expletives,  used  unluckily  in  a  somewhat 
excited  meeting  on  church  business  (for  in  prayer- 
meetings  he  never  answered  any  calls  to  rise,  lest  habit 


UNCLE   JOSH.  271 

should  get  the  better  of  him,  and  shock  the  very  sin 
ners  he  might  exhort) ,  — Parson  Pitcher  himself  made  a 
pastoral  call  at  the  farm,  and  found  its  master  in  the 
garden,  hoeing  corn  manfully. 

"  Good-day,  Mr.  Crane  !  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Good-day,  Parson  Pitcher,  good-day!  d hot 

day,  sir,"  answered  the  unconscious  Josh. 

"  Not  so  hot  as  hell  for  swearers,"  sternly  responded 
the  parson,  who,  being  of  a  family  renowned  in  New 
England  for  noway  mincing  matters,  sometimes  verged 
upon  profanity  himself,  though  unawares.  Josh  threw 
down  his  hoe  in  despair. 

u  O  Lord  !  "  said  he.  "  There  it  goes  again,  I  swear  ! 

the  d dogs  take  it !  If  I  don't  keep  a-goin'  !  O 

Parson  Pitcher  !  what  shall  I  dew  ?  It  swears  of  itself. 

I  am  clean  beat  tryin'  to  head  it  off.  Con no  !  I 

mean  confuse  it  all !  I'm  such  an  old  hand  at  the 
wheel,  sir!  " 

Luckily  for  Josh,  the  parson's  risibles  were  hardly 
better  in  hand  than  his  own  profanity ;  and  it  took  him 
now  a  long  time  to  pick  up  his  cane,  which  he  had 
dropped  in  the  currant-bushes,  while  Joe  stood  among 
the  corn-hills  wiping  the  sweat  off  his  brow,  in  an 
abject  state  of  penitence  and  humility ;  and,  as  the 
parson  emerged  like  a  full  moon  from  the  leafy  cur 
rants,  he  felt  more  charitably  toward  Josh  than  he  had 
done  before.  "It  is  a  very  bad  thing,  Mr.  Crane," 
said  he  mildly,  —  ' '  not  merely  for  yourself ;  but  it 
scandalizes  the  church-members,  and  I  think  you  should 
take  severe  measures  to  break  up  the  habit." 

u  What  upon  arth  shall  I  do,  sir?  "  piteously  asked 
Josh:  it's  the  d — dest  plague!  Oh!  I  swan  to  man  I've 
done  it  agin  ! ' ' 


272 


And  here,  with  a  long  howl,  Josh  threw  himself 
down  in  the  weeds,  and  kicked  out  like  a  half -broken 
colt,  wishing  in  his  soul  the  earth  would  hide  him,  and 
trying  to  feel  as  bad  as  he  ought  to ;  for  his  honest 
conscience  sturdily  refused  to  convict  him  in  this  mat 
ter,  faithful  as  it  was  in  much  less- sounding  sins. 

I  grieve  to  say  that  Parson  Pitcher  got  behind  an 
apple-tree,  and  there  —  cried  perhaps ;  for  he  was 
wiping  his  eyes,  and  shaking  all  over,  when  he  walked 
off ;  and  Josh,  getting  up  considerably  in  a  state  of 
dust,  if  not  ashes  and  sackcloth,  looked  sheepishly 
about  for  his  reprover,  but  he  was  gone. 

Parson  Pitcher  convened  the  deacons  and  a  few  of 
the  uneasy  brethren  that  night  in  his  study,  and  ex 
pounded  to  them  the  duty  of  charity  for  people  who 
would  sleep  in  meeting,  had  to  drink  bitters  for  their 
stomachs'  sake,  never  came  to  missionary  meetings 
for  fear  of  the  contribution-box,  or  swore  without 
knowing  it ;  and  as  Deacon  Stone  did  now  and  then 
snore  under  the  pulpit,  and  brother  Eldridge  had  a 
' '  rheumatiz  ' '  that  nothing  but  chokeberry-rum  would 
cure,  and  that  is  very  apt  to  affect  the  head,  and 
brother  Peters  had  so  firm  a  conviction  that  money  is 
the  root  of  all  evil,  that  he  kept  his  from  spreading, 
they  all  agreed  to  have  patience  with  brother  Crane's 
tongue-ill ;  and  Parson  Pitcher  smiled  as  he  shut  the 
door  behind  them,  thinking  of  that  first  stone  that  no 
elder  nor  ruler  could  throw. 

Nevertheless,  he  paid  another  visit  to  Josh  the  next 
week,  and  found  him  in  a  hopeful  state. 

"•I've  hit  on't  now,  Parson  Pitcher!"  said  he, 
without  waiting  for  a  more  usual  salutation.  "Miss 
Eunice  she  helped  me  :  she's  a  master  cretur  for  inven- 


UNCLE   JOSH.  273 

tions.  I  s-sugar!  »  There,  that's  it.  When  I'm 
a-goin'  to  speak  quick,  I  catch  up  somethin'  else  that's 
got  the  same  letter  on  the  bows,  and  I  tell  yew,  it  goes, 
'r  else  it's  somethin'. — Hollo!  I  see  them  d-dipper 
sheep  is  in  my  corn.  Git  aout !  git  aout !  you  d-dan- 
delions  !  Git  aout !  "  Here  he  scrambled  away  after 
the  stray  sheep,  just  in  time  for  the  parson,  who  had 
quieted  his  face  and  walked  in  to  see  Mrs.  Crane,  when 
Josh  came  back  dripping,  and  exclaiming,  ' '  Pepper- 
grass  !  them  is  the  d-drowndedest  sheep  I  ever  see." 

This  new  spell  of  "Miss  Eunice's,"  as  Josh  always 
called  his  wife,  worked  well  while  it  was  new.  But  the 
unruly  tongue  relapsed ;  and  meek  Mrs.  Crane  had 
grown  to  look  upon  it  —  as  she  would  upon  a  wooden 
leg,  had  that  been  Josh's  infirmity  —  with  pity  and 
regret,  the  purest  result  of  a  charity  which  ' '  endureth 
and  hopeth  all  things,"  eminently  her  ruling  trait. 

Every  thing  else  went  on  prosperously.  The  farm 
paid  well,  and  Josh  laid  up  money,  but  never  for  him 
self.  They  had  no  children,  a  sore  disappointment  to 
both  their  kindly  hearts  ;  but  all  the  poor  and  orphan 
little  ones  in  the  town  seemed  to  have  a  special  claim 
on  their  care  and  help.  Nobody  ever  went  away 
hungry  from  Josh's  door,  or  unconsoled  from  Miss 
Eunice's  "keeping-room."  Everybody  loved  them 
both,  and  in  time  people  forgot  that  Josh  swore  ;  but  he 
never  did  :  a  keen  pain  discomforted  him  whenever  he 
saw  a  child  look  up  astonished  at  his  oath.  He  had 
grown  so  far  toward  ' '  the  full  ear, ' '  that  he  under 
stood  what  an  offence  his  habit  was  ;  and  it  pained  him 
very  much  that  it  could  not  be  overcome,  even  in  so 
long  a  trial.  But  soon  other  things  drew  on  to  change 
the  current  of  Josh's  penitent  thoughts. 


274  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

He  had  been  married  about  «ten  years  when  Miss 
Eunice  began  to  show  signs  of  failing  health.  She 
was,  after  the  Yankee  custom,  somewhat  older  than 
her  husband,  and  of  too  delicate  a  make  to  endure  the 
hard  life  Connecticut  farmers'  wives  must  or  do  lead. 
Josh  was  as  fond  of  her  as  he  could  be  ;  but  he  did  not 
know  how  to  demonstrate  it.  All  sorts  of  comforts  she 
had,  as  far  as  food  and  fire  and  clothing  went,  but  no 
recreation.  No  public  amusements  ever  visited  Plain- 
field,  a  sparse  and  quiet  village  far  off  the  track  of  any 
railroad.  The  farmers  could  not  spend  time  to  drive 
round  the  country  with  their  wives,  or  to  go  visiting, 
except  now  and  then  on  Sunday  nights  to  a  neighbor's  ; 
sometimes  to  a  paring  or  husking  bee,  the  very  essence 
of  which  was  work.  Once  a  year  a  donation-party  at 
the  minister's,  and  a  rare  attendance  upon  the  sewing- 
circle,  distasteful  to  Josh,  who  must  get  and  eat  his 
supper  alone  in  that  case,  —  these  were  all  the  amuse 
ments  Miss  Eunice  knew.  Books  she  had  none,  except 
her  Bible,  "Boston's  Fourfold  State,"  a  dictionary, 
and  an  arithmetic,  —  relics  of  her  school ;  and,  if  ever 
she  wished  for  more,  she  repressed  the  wish,  because 
these  ought  to  be  enough.  She  did  not  know,  or  dared 
not  be  conscious,  that  humanity  needs  something  for 
its  lesser  and  trivial  life ;  that  ' '  by  all  these  things 
men  live,"  as  well  as  by  the  word  and  by  bread. 

So  she  drudged  on  uncomplainingly,  and  after  ten 
years  of  patience  and  labor,  took  to  her  bed,  and  was 
pronounced  by  the  Plainfield  doctor  to  have  successively 
"  a  spine  in  the  back,"  a  "  rising  of  the  lungs,"  and  a 
1 '  gittaral  complaint  of  the  lights. ' '  (Was  it  catarrhal  ?) 
Duly  was  she  blistered,  plastered,  and  fomented,  dosed 
with  Brandreth's  pills,  mullein-root  in  cider,  tansy, 


UNCLE  JOSH.  275 

burdock,  bitter-sweet,  catnip,  and  boneset  teas,  sow- 
bugs  tickled  into  a  ball,  and  swallowed  alive,  dried 
rattlesnakes'  flesh,  and  the  powder  of  a  red  squirrel, 
shut  into  a  red-hot  oven  living,  baked  till  powderable, 
and  then  put  through  that  process  in  a  mortar,  and 
administered  fasting. 

Dearly  beloved,  I  am  not  inprovising.  All  these, 
and  sundry  othej  and  filthier  medicaments  which  I 
refrain  from  mentioning,  did  once,  perhaps  do  still, 
abound  in  the  inlands  of  this  Yankeedom,  and  slay 
their  thousands  yearly,  as  with  the  jaw-bone  of  an  ass. 

Of  course  Miss  Eunice  pined  and  languished,  not 
merely  from  the  "simples"  that  she  swallowed,  but 
because  the  very  fang  that  had  set  itself  in  the  breast 
of  Josh's  gentle  mother  gnawed  and  rioted  in  hers. 
At  length  some  idea  of  this  kind  occurred  to  Uncle 
Josh's  mind.  He  tackled  up  Boker,  the  old  horse,  and 
set  out  for  Sanbury,  where  there  lived  a  doctor  of  some 
eminence,  and  returned  in  triumph,  with  Dr.  Sawyer 
following  in  his  own  gig. 

Miss  Eunice  was  carefully  examined  by  the  physi 
cian,  a  pompous  but  kindly  man,  who  saw  at  once  there 
was  no  hope  and  no  help  for  his  fluttered  and  panting 
patient. 

When  the  millennium  comes,  let  us  hope  it  will  bring 
physicians  of  sufficient  fortitude  to  forbear  dosing  in 
hopeless  cases  :  it  is  vain  to  look  for  such  in  the  present 
condition  of  things.  And  Dr.  Sawyer  was  no  better 
than  his  kind  :  he  hemmed,  hawed,  screwed  up  one 
eye,  felt  Miss  Eunice's  pulse  again,  and  uttered  orac 
ularly,  — 

' '  I  think  a  portion  of  some  sudorific  febrifuge  would 
probably  allay  Mrs.  Crane's  hectic." 


276  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Well,  I  expect  it  would,"  confidently  asserted 
Josh.  "  Can  I  get  it  to  the  store,  doctor?  " 

"No,  sir:  it  should  be  compounded  in  the  family, 
Mr.  Crane." 

"Dew  tell!"  responded  Josh,  rather  crestfallen, 
but  brightening  up  as  the  doctor  went  on  to  describe, 
in  all  the  polysyllables  he  could  muster,  the  desirable 
fluid.  At  the  end  Josh  burst  out  joyfully  with,  — 

"I  sw-swan !  'tain't  nothin'  but  lemonade  with 
gumarabac  in't." 

Dr.  Sawyer  gave  him  a  look  of  contempt,  and  took 
his  leave,  Josh  laboring  under  the  profound  and  happy 
conviction  that  nothing  ailed  Miss  Eunice,  if  lemonade 
was  all  that  she  needed  ;  while  the  doctor  called,  on  his 
way  home,  to  see  Parson  Pitcher,  and  to  him  confided 
the  mournful  fact  that  Miss  Eunice  was  getting  ready 
for  heaven  fast,  could  scarcely  linger  another  week  by 
any  mortal  help.  Parson  Pitcher  grieved  truly  ;  for  he 
loved  and  respected  Eunice,  and  held  her  as  the  sweet 
est  and  brightest  example  of  unobtrusive  religion  in  all 
his  church :  moreover,  he  knew  how  Josh  would  feel ; 
and  he  dreaded  the  task  of  conveying  to  him  this  pain 
ful  intelligence,  resolving,  nevertheless,  to  visit  them 
next  day  with  that  intent,  as  it  was  now  too  near  night 
to  make  it  convenient. 

But  a  more  merciful  and  able  shepherd  than  he  pre 
ceded  him,  and  spared  Josh  the  lingering  agony  of  an 
expectation  that  could  do  him  no  good.  Miss  Eunice 
had  a  restless  night  after  Dr.  Sawyer's  visit ;  for,  with 
the  preternatural  keenness  of  her  disease,  she  read  the 
truth  in  his  eye  and  tone.  Though  she  had  long 
looked  on  to  this  end,  and  was  ready  to  enter  into  rest, 
the  nearness  of  that  untried  awe  agitated  her,  and  for- 


UNCLE   JOSH.  277 

bade  her  sleep ;  but  faith,  unfailing  in  bitter  need, 
calmed  her  at  length,  and  with  peace  written  upon  her 
face  she  slept  till  dawn.  A  sudden  pang  awoke  her, 
and  her  start  roused  Josh.  He  lifted  her  on  the  pillow, 
where  the  red  morning  light  showed  her  gasping  and 
gray  with  death  :  he  turned  all  cold. 

"  Good-by,  Josh!"  said  her  tender  voice,  fainting 
as  it  spoke,  and,  with  one  upward  rapturous  look  of  the 
soft  brown  eyes  they  closed  forever,  and  her  head  fell 
back  on  Josh's  shoulder,  dead. 

There  the  neighbor  who  ; '  did  chores  ' '  for  her  of 
late  found  the  two  when  she  came  in.  Josh  had 
changed  since  his  mother  died ;  for  the  moment  Mrs. 
Casey  lifted  his  wife  from  his  arm,  and  laid  her  patient, 
peaceful  face  back  on  its  pillow,  Josh  flung  himself 
down  beside  her,  and  cried  aloud  with  the  passion  and 
carelessness  of  a  child.  Nobody  could  rouse  him,  no 
body  could  move  him,  till  Parson  Pitcher  came  in,  and, 
taking  his  hand,  raised  and  led  him  into  the  keeping- 
room.  There  Josh  brushed  off  the  mist  before  his 
drenched  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  rough  hand,  and 
looked  straight  at  Parson  Pitcher. 

"O  Lord!  she's  dead,"  said  he,  as  if  he  alone  of 
all  the  world  knew  it. 

u  Yes,  my  son,  she  is  dead,"  solemnly  replied  the 
parson.  "It  is  the  will  of  God,  and  you  must  con 
sent." 

"  I  can't,  I  can't !  I  a'n't  a-goin'  to,"  sobbed  Josh. 
"'Ta'n'tno  use  talkin' — if  I'd  only  'xpected  some- 
thin'  :  it's  that doctor  !  O  Lord  !  I've  swore,  and 

Miss  Eunice  is  dead  !  Oh  gracious  goody  !  what  be  I 
a-goin'  to  do?  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear  !  O  Miss  Eunice  !  " 

Parson   Pitcher   could   not    even    smile :    the    poor 


278 


fellow's  grief  was  too  deep.  What  could  he  think  of 
to  console  him,  but  that  deepest  comfort  to  the  be 
reaved,  —  her  better  state?  "  My  dear  friend,  be  com 
forted.  Eunice  is  with  the  blessed  in  heaven." 

"  I  know  it.  I  know  it.  She  allers  was  nigh  about 
fit  to  get  there  without  dyin'.  O  Lordy !  she's  gone 
to  heaven,  and  I  ha' n't !  " 

No,  there  was  no  consoling  Uncle  Josh :  that  touch 
of  nature  showed  it.  He  was  alone,  and  refused  to  be 
comforted  :  so  Parson  Pitcher  made  a  fervent  prayer 
for  the  living,  that  unawares  merged  into  a  thanksgiv 
ing  for  the  dead,  and  went  his  way,  sorrowfully  con 
victed  that  his  holy  office  had  in  it  no  supernatural 
power  or  aid,  that  some  things  are  too  deep  and  too 
mighty  for  man. 

Josh's  grief  raved  itself  into  worn-out  dejection, 
still  too  poignant  to  bear  the  gentlest  touch  :  his  groans 
and  cries  were  heart-breaking  at  the  funeral,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  he  would  really  die  with  agony  while  the 
despairing  wretchedness  of  the  funeral  hymn,  the  wail 
ing  cadences  of  "  China,"  poured  round  the  dusty  and 
cobwebbed  meeting-house  to  which  they  carried  his 
wife  in  her  coffin,  one  sultry  August  Sunday,  to  utter 
prayers  and  hymns  above  her  who  now  needed  no 
prayer,  and  heard  the  hymns  of  heaven. 

•After  this,  Josh  retired  to  his  own  house,  and, 
according  to  Mrs.  Casey's  story,  neither  slept  nor  ate ; 
but  this  was  somewhat  apocryphal :  and,  three  days 
after  the  funeral,  Parson  Pitcher,  betaking  himself  to 
the  Crane  farm,  found  Uncle  Josh  whittling  out  a  set 
of  clothes-pegs  on  his  door-step,  but  looking  very 
downcast  and  miserable. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Crane  !  "  said  the  good  divine. 


UNCLE  JOSH.  279 

"  Mornin',  Parson  Pitcher  !     Hev'  a  cheer?  " 

The  parson  sat  down  on  the  bench  of  the  stoop,  and 
wistfully  surveyed  Josh,  wondering  how  best  to  intro 
duce  the  subject  of  his  loss  ;  but  the  refractory  widower 
gave  no  sign,  and  at  length  the  parson  spoke. 

' '  I  hope  you  begin  to  be  resigned  to  the  will  of 
Providence,  my  dear  Mr.  Crane?  " 

"No,  I  don't,  a  speck!"  honestly  retorted  Josh. 
Parson  Pitcher  was  shocked. 

"I  hoped  to  find  you  in  a  better  frame,"  said  he. 

"  I  can't  help  it !  "  exclaimed  Josh,  flinging  down  a 
finished  peg  emphatically.  "  I  ain't  resigned.  I  want 
Miss  Eunice.  I  ain't  willin'  to  have  her  dead  :  I  can't 

and  I  ain't ;  and  that's  the  hull  on't !  And  I'd  a 

sight  ruther —  Oh,  goody!  I've  swore  agin.  Lord-a- 
massy !  'n'  she  ain't  here  to  look  at  me  when  I  do, 

and  I'm  goin'  straight  to  the  d !  Oh,  land,  there 

it  goes  !  Oh,  dear  soul !  can't  a  feller  help  himself 
nohow?" 

And,  with  that,  Josh  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears, 
and  fled  past  Parson  Pitcher  into  the  barn,  from 
whence  he  emerged  no  more  till  the  minister's  steps 
were  heard  crunching  on  the  gravel-path  toward  the 
gate  ;  when  Josh,  persistent  as  Galileo,  thrust  his  head 
out  of  the  barn- window,  and  repeated  in  a  louder  and 
more  strenuous  key,  "  I  ain't  willin',  Parson  Pitcher  !  " 
leaving  the  parson  in  a  dubious  state  of  mind,  on  which 
he  ruminated  for  some  weeks  ;  finally  concluding  to 
leave  Josh  alone  with  his  Bible  till  time  should  blunt 
the  keen  edge  of  his  pain,  and  reduce  him  to  reason. 
And  he  noticed  with  great  satisfaction  that  Josh 
came  regularly  to  church  and  conference-meetings,  and 
at  length  resumed  his  work  with  a  due  amount  of  com 
posure. 


280  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

There  was  in  the  village  of  Plainfield  a  certain  Miss 
Ranney,  daughter  of  the  aforesaid  Mrs.  Ranney,  the 
greatest  vixen  in  those  parts,  and  of  course  an  old 
maid.  Her  temper  and  tongue  had  kept  off  suitors  in 
her  youth,  and  had  in  nowise  softened  since.  Her 
name  was  Sarah,  familiarized  into  Sally ;  and  as  she 
grew  up  to  middle  age,  that  pleasant,  kindly  title  being 
sadly  out  of  keeping  with  her  nature,  everybody  called 
her  Sail  Ran,  and  the  third  generation  scarce  knew 
she  had  another  name. 

Any  uproar  in  the  village  always  began  with  Sail 
Ran ;  and  woe  be  to  the  unlucky  boy  who  pilfered  an 
apple  under  the  overhanging  trees  of  Mrs.  Ranney's 
orchard  by  the  road,  or  tilted  the  well-sweep  of  her 
stony- cur  bed  well  to  get  a  drink.  Sail  was  down  upon 
the  offender  like  a  hail-storm ;  and  cuffs  and  shrieks 
mingled  in  wild  chorus  with  her  shrill  scolding,  to  the 
awe  and  consternation  of  every  child  within  half  a 
mile. 

Judge,  then,  of  Parson  Pitcher's  amazement,  when, 
little  more  than  a  year  after  Miss  Eunice's  death, 
Josh  was  ushered  into  his  study  one  evening,  and, 
after  stroking  a  new  stove-pipe  hat  for  a  long  time,  at 
length  said  he  had  "come  to  speak  about  bein'  pub 
lished."  The  parson  drew  a  long  breath,  partly  for 
the  mutability  of  man,  partly  of  pure  wonder. 

"Who  are  you  going  to  marry,  Mr.  Crane?"  said 
he,  after  a  pause.  Another  man  might  have  softened 
the  style  of  his  wife  to  be  :  not  Josh. 

"Sail  Ran,"  said  he  undauntedly.  Parson  Pitcher 
arose  from  his  chair,  and,  with  both  hands  in  his 
pockets,  advanced  upon  Josh  like  horse  and  foot  to 
gether.  But  he  stood  his  ground. 


UNCLE  JOSH.  281 

1  'What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  and  decency 
do  you  mean  by  marrying  that  woman,  Joshu-way 
Crane  ?  ' '  thundered  the  parson. 

"Well,  ef  you'll  set  down,  Parson  Pitcher,  I'll  tell 
ye  the  rights  on't.  You  see,  I'm  dreadful  pestered 
with  this  here  swearin'  way  I've  got.  I  kinder  thought 
it  would  wear  off,  if  Miss  Eunice  kep'  a-lookin  at  me  ; 
but  she's  died."  Here  Josh  interpolated  a  great  blub 
bering  sob.  "  And  I'm  gettin'  so  d bad  !  There  ! 

you  see,  parson,  I  doo  swear  dreadful ;  and  I  ain't  no 
more  resigned  to  her  dyin'  then  I  used  ter  be,  and  I 
can't  stan'  it.  So  I  set  to  figgerin*  on  it  out,  and  I 
guess  I've  lived  too  easy,  hain't  had  enough  'flictions 
and  trials.  So  I  concluded  I  hed  oughter  put  myself 
to  the  wind'ard  of  some  squalls,  so's  to  learn  naviga 
tion  ;  and  I  couldn't  tell  how,  till  suddenly  I  brought 

to  mind  Sail  Ran,  who  is  the  D and  all.  Oh,  dear, 

I've  nigh  about  swore  agin'  !  And  I  concluded  she'd 
be  the  nearest  to  a  cat-o-nine-tails  I  could  get  to  tew- 
tor  me.  And  then  I  reklected  what  old  Cap'n  Thomas 
used  to  say  when  I  was  a  boy  aboard  of  his  whaler : 
'Boys,'  sez  he,  'you're  allers  sot  to  hev'  your  own 
way,  and  you've  got  ter  hev  mine :  so's  it's  pooty 
clear  that  I  shall  flog  you  to  rope-yarns,  or  else  you'll 
hev  to  make  b'lieve  my  way's  your'n,  which'll  suit  all 
round.'  So  you  see,  Parson  Pitcher,  I  w'an't  a-goin' 
to  put  myself  in  a  way  to  quarrel  with  the  Lord's  will 
agin ;  and  I  don't  expect  you  to  hev'  no  such  trouble 
with  me  twice,  as  you've  hed  sence  Miss  Eunice  up 
an'  died.  I  swan  I'll  give  up  reasonable  next  time, 
seein'  it's  Sail." 

Hardly  could  Parson  Pitcher  stand  this  singular 
screed  of  doctrine,  or  the  shrewd  and  self-satisfied  yet 


282  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

honest  expression  of  face  with  which  Josh  clinched 
his  argument.  Professing  himself  in  great  haste  to 
study,  he  promised  to  publish  as  well  as  to  marry  Josh, 
and,  when  his  odd  parishioner  was  out  of  hearing, 
indulged  himself  with  a  long  fit  of  laughter,  almost 
inextinguishable,  over  Josh's  patent  Christianizer. 

Great  was  the  astonishment  of  the  whole  congrega 
tion  on  Sunday,  when  Josh's  intentions  were  given  out 
from  the  pulpit,  and  strangely  mixed  and  hesitating 
the  congratulations  he  received  after  his  marriage, 
which  took  place  in  the  following  week.  Parson  Pitcher 
took  a  curious  interest  in  the  success  of  Josh's  project, 
and  had  to  acknowledge  its  beneficial  effects,  rather 
against  his  will. 

Sail  Ran  was  the  best  of  housekeepers,  as  scolds  are 
apt  to  be  ;  or  is  it  in  reverse  that  the  rule  began  ?  She 
kept  the  farmhouse  Quakerly  clean,  and  every  garment 
of  her  husband's  scrupulously  mended  and  refreshed. 
But,  if  the  smallest  profanity  escaped  Uncle  Josh's 
lips,  he  did  indeed  "hear  thunder;"  and,  with  the 
ascetic  devotion  of  a  Guyonist,  he  endured  every  objur 
gatory  torrent  to  the  end,  though  his  soft  and  kindly 
heart  would  now  and  then  cringe  and  quiver  in  the 
process. 

It  was  all  for  his  good,  he  often  said ;  and,  by  the 
time  Sail  Ran  had  been  in  Miss  Eunice's  place  for  an 
equal  term  of  years,  Uncle  Josh  had  become  so  mild- 
spoken,  so  kind,  so  meek,  that  surely  his  dead  wife 
must  have  rejoiced  over  it  in  heaven,  even  as  his  breth 
ren  did  on  earth. 

And  now  came  the  crowning  honor  of  his  life.  Uncle 
Josh  was  made  a  deacon.  Sail  celebrated  the  event 
by  a  new  black  silk  frock ;  and  asked  Parson  Pitcher 


UNCLE   JOSH.  283 

home  to  tea  after  the  church-meeting,  and  to  such  a 
tea  as  is  the  great  glory  of  a  New-England  house 
keeper.  Pies,  preserves,  cake,  biscuit,  bread,  short 
cake,  cheese,  honey,  fruit,  and  cream,  were  pressed 
and  pressed 'again  upon  the  unlucky  parson,  till  he  was 
quite  in  the  condition  of  Charles  Lamb  and  the  omni 
bus,  and  gladly  saw  the  signal  of  retreat  from  the 
table ;  he  withdrawing  himself  to  the  bench  on  the 
stoop,  to  breathe  the  odorous  June  air,  and  talk  over 
matters  and  things  with  Deacon  Josh,  while  "Miss 
Crane  cleared  off." 

Long  and  piously  the  two  worthies  talked ;  and  at 
length  came  a  brief  pause,  broken  by  Josh. 

"Well,  Parson  Pitcher,  that  'are  calkerlation  of 
mine  about  Sail  did  come  out  nigh  outer  right,  didn't 
it?" 

"Yes  indeed,  my  good  friend,"  returned  the  parson. 
"  The  trial  she  has  been  to  you  has  been  really  blessed, 
and  shows  most  strikingly  the  use  of  discipline  in  this 
life." 

"Yes,"  said  Josh.  "If  Miss  Eunice  had  lived,  I 
don't  know  but  what  I  should  'a'  ben  a  swearin'  man 
to  this  day ;  but  Sail  she's  rated  it  out  o'  me.  And 
I'm  gettin'  real  resigned  too." 

The  meek  complacency  of  the  confession  still  gleamed 
in  Uncle  Josh's  eyes  as  he  went  in  to  prayers  ;  but 
Sail  Ran  looked  redder  than  the  crimson  peonies  on 
her  posy-bed. 

Parson  Pitcher  made  an  excellent  prayer,  particu 
larly  descanting  on  the  use  of  trials ;  and  when  he 
came  to  an  end,  and  arose  to  say  good-night,  Mrs. 
Crane  had  vanished :  so  he  had  to  go  home  without 
taking  leave  of  her.  Strange  to  say,  during  the  follow- 


284  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

ing  year  a  rumor  crept  through  the  village  that  ' '  Miss 
Deacon  Crane"  had  not  been  heard  to  scold  once  for 
months  ;  that  she  even  held  her  tongue  under  provoca 
tion  ;  this  last  fact  being  immediately  put  to  the  test 
by  a  few  evil-minded  and  investigating  boys,  who  pro 
ceeded  to  pull  her  fennel-bushes  through  the  pickets, 
and  nip  the  yellow  heads  ;  receiving  for  their  audacious 
thieving  no  more  than  a  mild  request  not  to  "  do 
that,"  which  actually  shamed  them  into  apologizing. 

With  this  confirmation,  even  Parson  Pitcher  began 
to  be  credulous  of  report,  and  sent  directly  for  Deacon 
Crane  to  visit  him. 

"How's  your  wife,  deacon?"  said  the  parson,  as 
soon  as  Josh  was  fairly  seated  in  the  study. 

"Well,  Parson  Pitcher,  she's  most  onsartainly 
changed.  I  don't  believe  she's  got  riled  mor'n  once, 
or  gin  it  to  me  once,  for  six  months." 

"Very  singular,"  said  Parson  Pitcher.  "I  am 
glad  for  both  of  you.  But  what  seems  to  have  wrought 
upon  her  ?  ' ' 

"  Well,"  said  Uncle  Josh,  with  a  queer  glitter  in  his 
eye,  "I  expect  she  must  'a'  ben  to  the  winder  that 
night  you  'n'  I  sot  a-talkin'  on  the  stoop  about  'flic- 
tions  and  her  ;  for  next  day  I  stumbled,  and  spilt  a  lot 
o'  new  milk  onto  the  kitchen-floor.  That  allers  riled 
her :  so  I  began  to  say,  '  Oh,  dear,  I'm  sorry,  Sail ! ' 
when  she  ups  right  away,  and  sez,  sez  she,  '  You  hain't 
no  need  to  be  skeered,  Josh  Crane :  you've  done  with 
'fictions  in  this  world.  I  sha'n't  never  scold  you  no 
more.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  made  a  pack-horse  to 
carry  my  husband  to  heaven.'  And  she  never  said  no 
more  to  me,  nor  I  to  her  ;  but  she's  ben  nigh  about  as 
pretty-behaved  as  Miss  Eunice  ever  since  ;  and  I  hope 


UNCLE  JOSH.  285 

I  shaVt  take  to  swearin'.     I  guess  I  sha'n't;  but  I 
do  feel  kinder  crawly  about  bein'  resigned." 

However,  Uncle  Josh's  troubles  were  over.  Sail 
Ran  dropped  her  name  f  or  "  Aunt  Salty,"  and  finally 
joined  the  church,  and  was  as  good  in  her  strenuous 
way  as  her  husband  in  his  meekness  ;  for  there  are 
"diversities  of  gifts."  And  when  the  Plainfield  bell, 
one  autumn  day,  tolled  a  long  series  of  eighty  strokes, 
and  Deacon  Crane  was  gathered  to  his  rest  in  the 
daisy-sprinkled  burying-yard  beside  Miss  Eunice,  the 
young  minister  who  succeeded  Parson  Pitcher  had 
almost  as  hard  a  task  to  console  Aunt  Sally  as  his 
predecessor  had  to  instil  resignation,  on  a  like  occa 
sion,  into  Uncle  Josh. 


POLL   JENNINGS'S   HAIR. 

IT  is  sometimes  a  relief  to  have  a  story  without  a 
heroine,  and  this  distinction  alone  can  I  claim  for 
mine.  Nothing  heroic  or  wonderful  casts  its  halo  about 
little  Poll  Jennings,  the  seventh  daughter  of  Abe  Jen 
nings,  the  south-side  fishermau.  Not  even  one  of  those 
miraculous  poor  cottages  that  are  always  so  exquisitely 
clean,  and  have  white  curtains  and  climbing  roses 
through  all  depths  of  poverty  and  suffering,  held  my 
little  girl  in  its  romantic  shelter.  Abe's  house,  lying 
between  three  of  those  low  sand-hills  that  back  the 
shore  on  our  New-England  coast,  like  waves  of  land 
that  simulate  the  sea,  was  not  in  the  least  attractive  or 
picturesque.  At  first  a  mere  cabin  of  drift-wood,  the 
increasing  wants  and  numbers  of  his  family  had,  as  it 
were,  built  themselves  out  in  odd  attachments  —  square, 
or  oblong,  or  triangular  —  as  wood  came  to  hand,  or 
necessity  demanded,  till  the  whole  dwelling  bore  the 
aspect  externally  of  a  great  rabbit-hutch  or  poultry- 
house,  such  as  boys  build,  on  a  smaller  scale,  out  of  old 
boards  from  ruined  barns,  palings  of  fence,  and  refuse 
from  carpenters'  shops.  Though  no  constructive  maga 
zine  furnished  inside  or  outside  of  the  fisherman's 
home,  it  was  all  fashioned  from  the  waifs  of  a  great 
destroyer,  —  all  drift-wood  from  the  sea,  that  raved 
and  thundered  half  a  mile  off,  as  if  yet  clamorous  for 
286 


POLL  JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  287 

its  prey.  Still,  uncouth  and  rude  as  was  its  shaping, 
a  poet  might  have  found  it  more  suggestive  than  any 
model  cottage  in  the  land,  —  if  a  poet  be  not  merely 
the  rhymer  of  sentiment  and  beauty,  but  he  whose 
creative  soul,  from  one  slight  thread  of  association, 
spins  a  wide  web  of  fancies,  and  tracks  the  idea 
through  all  its  windings,  till  imagination  becomes 
reality,  and  the  real  and  the  ideal  are  one.  However, 
no  poet  ever  entered  there  to  talk  or  think  all  this  non 
sense  ;  and  the  old  walls,  where  teak,  that  an  Indian 
forest  missed,  stood  side  by  side  with  oak  from  English 
uplands,  and  pine  from  the  JEolian  woods  of  Maine ; 
the  windows,  that  had  been  driven  ashore,  void  of 
their  crystal  panes,  from  some  full- freighted  steamer, 
gone  down  too  deep  for  any  more  wistful  eyes  to  watch 
receding  shore  or  hurrying  storm-rack  through  the 
sashes ;  doors,  that  had  swung  to  in  the  last  lurch  of 
the  vessel,  and  made  the  state-rooms  they  guarded 
tombs  of  the  dead,  —  all  these  spoke  nothing  to  the 
practical  brain  of  old  Abe  Jennings,  nor  softened  to 
any  pathos  the  high  spirits  of  his  six  rosy  daughters, 
who  laughed  and  romped  and  worked,  as  regardless  of 
any  outside  suffering  as  if  they  were  the  world,  and 
their  sand-hills  comprised  all  life  and  destiny.  But 
Poll,  the  last  and  least  of  the  seven,  was  one  of  those 
exceptional  creatures  that  come  as  some  new  and 
strange  variety  of  a  flower  does,  as  unlike  all  its  con 
geners  in  tint  and  habit  as  if  it  were  the  growth  of  an 
alien  soil  and  climate.  Ruth  and  Mary  and  Martha, 
Nancy,  Jane,  and  Adeline,  were  all  straight  and  strong, 
with  thick,  dark  hair,  varying  only  from  the  tar-black 
of  Ruth's  coarse  curls  to  the  shining  deep-brown  of 
Adeline's  braids.  Roses  of  the  deepest  dye  bloomed 


288  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

on  their  faces.  Except  Ruth,  they  were  never  sad  or 
moody :  they  had  their  sweethearts  and  their  frolics, 
and  were  altogether  common-sense,  ordinary,  whole 
some  girls  as  one  could  find.  Polly  could  lay  claim  to 
none  of  these  charms  or  virtues :  she  was  slight  and 
pale,  with  great  hazel  eyes,  that  oftenest  looked  vague 
and  dreamy ;  her  very  lips  were  colorless ;  and  her 
skin,  roughened  and  red,  offered  neither  bloom  nor 
purity  to  attract  the  eye  :  but  her  hair  was  truly  mag 
nificent.  Of  the  deepest  red,  — undeniably  red,  as  is  the 
glossy  coat  of  a  bright  bay  horse,  —  it  fell  to  her  feet  in 
shining  waves',  so  soft,  so  fine,  yet  so  heavy,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  splendid  growth  had  absorbed  all  the 
beauty  and  strength  that  should  otherwise  have  been 
hers  in  face  and  form.  But  with  this  peculiar  coloring 
came  also  the  temperament  of  which  it  is  the  index,  — 
sensitive,  passionate,  shy  as  a  quail,  yet  proud  as  only 
a  woman  can  be.  If  Poll  Jennings  had  been  taught  and 
trained  to  the  height  of  her  capacities,  or  even  had  the 
means  of  self-training,  her  latent  genius  would  have 
dawned  on  her  sphere  in  one  shape  or  another ;  and 
perhaps  an  actress,  perhaps  an  author,  some  star  of 
art,  some  wonder  of  vocalization,  might  have  delighted 
or  astonished  the  world.  But,  happily  for  Poll,  another 
and  a  better  fate  than  these  awaited  her,  though  its 
vestibule  was  only  a  hut,  and  its  locality  the  sand-hills 
of  the  Atlantic  shore.  Yet  this  special  beauty  of  the 
child's,  her  resplendent  hair,  was  made  her  peculiar 
torment.  To  her  sisters  and  father  it  was  red,  and  only 
red  ;  and  all  the  jokes  that  people  will  waste  on  that 
tint  —  artistic,  historic,  exquisite  as  it  may  be  —  were 
lavished  on  Polly's  head,  till  hot  tears  filled  her  eyes, 
and  burning  color  suffused  her  face  at  the  least  allusion 


POLL   JENNINGS'S    HAIR.  289 

to  it.  Moreover,  her  physical  capacity  was  far  inferior 
to  that  of  her  sisters  ;  her  slight  hands  and  arms  could 
not  row  a  boat  through  the  rolling  seas  outside  the  bar  ; 
she  could  not  toil  at  the  wash-tub,  or  help  draw  a  seine  ; 
and  when  a  young  farmer  from  inland  came  down  ' '  to 
salt,"  or  a  sturdy  fisher  from  another  bay  hauled  up 
his  boat  inside  the  little  harbor  of  Squamkeag  Light, 
and  trudged  over  to  have  a  talk  with  old  Abe,  it  was 
never  Poll  who  waded  out  into  the  mud  with  bare, 
white  legs  and  flying  hair,  to  dig  clams  for  supper ; 
or  who,  with  a  leather  palm,  in  true  sailor-fashion, 
mended  sails  by  the  fireside,  singing  'longshore  songs 
at  her  work.  Poll's  place  was  never  there  :  she  shrank 
away  to  gather  berries,  or  hunt  for  gulls'  eggs,  or 
crouched  motionless  in  a  darker  corner,  her  great, 
luminous  eyes  fixed  on  some  panelled  fragment  of  the 
wall  that  hungry  seas  had  thrown  ashore,  painting  to 
herself  the  storm  and  the  wreck  till  she  neither  heard 
nor  saw  the  rough  love-making  that  went  on  beside  her. 
So  it  happened  that  Mary  and  Martha,  the  twins, 
married  two  young  farmers  up  the  country,  and  led 
the  unpastoral  lives  that  farming  women  in  New 
England  must  lead, — lives  of  drudgery  and  care. 
Nancy  went  off  with  a  young  fisherman  over  to  Fire 
Island.  Ruth,  the  oldest,  had  lost  her  lover,  years 
gone  by,  in  a  whale-ship  that  sailed  away,  and  was 
never  heard  of  more ;  while  Jane  was  just  about  to 
be  married  to  hers,  mate  on  a  New-Haven  schooner,  — 
"  Mdse.  to  Barbadoes,"  as  the  shipping-list  said ;  and 
Adeline  laughed  and  coquetted  between  half  a  dozen 
of  the  roughest  sort. 

There  were   enough  at  home  to  do  the  work ;  and 
Ruth's    set    sobriety,    Jane's    boisterous    healthiness, 


290  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Adeline's  perpetual  giggle,  none  of  them  chimed  with 
Poll's  dreamy  nature.  A  weary  sense  of  her  own 
incapacity  oppressed  her  all  the  time.  She  could  not 
work  as  they  did ;  and,  worst  of  all,  the  continual 
feeling  that  she  was  ugly,  "red-headed,"  "white- 
faced,"  "eyes  as  big  as  a  robin's,"  brooded  over  her 
solitary  thoughts,  and  made  her  more  sad,  more  lonely, 
from  day  to  day.  Yet  though  no  refinement  of  speech 
ever  turned  plain  "Poll"  into  Pauline,  and  no  suave 
ministrations  of  higher  civilization  toned  her  wild  grace. 
into  elegance,  or  wove  her  beautiful  locks  into  the 
crown  they  should  have  been,  she  had  her  own  consola 
tions  ;  for  Nature  is  no  foster-mother,  and  she  took  this 
sobbing  child  into  her  own  heart.  Polly's  highest 
pleasure  was  to  steal  out  from  the  cabin,  and  wander 
away  to  the  shore :  there,  laid  at  length  among  the 
rank  grass  whose  leaves  waved  and  glittered  in  the 
wind,  she  watched  the  curling  waves  of  beryl  sweep  in, 
to  leap  and  break  in  thunder,  while  the  spray-bells 
were  tossed  far  and  sparkling  from  their  crests  on  the 
beaten  sands,  and  the  crepitation  of  those  brilliant 
bubbles,  crushed  beneath  the  wave,  scarce  finished  its 
fairy  peal  of  artillery  ere  another  and  a  heavier  surf 
swelled,  and  curled,  and  broke  above  it ;  while  milk- 
white  gulls  darted  and  screamed  overhead,  or  a  lonely 
fish-hawk  hovered  with  dire  intent  over  the  shoal  of 
fish  that  dimpled  and  darkened  the  water  with  a  wan 
dering  wave  of  life ;  tiud  far  beyond,  through  the  pur 
ple  haze  that  brooded  on  the  horizon,  white-sailed  ships 
glided  into  sight,  and,  stately  as  dreams,  vanished 
again  whence  they  seemed  to  come.  Here,  while  the 
fresh  breeze  swept  her  cheek  with  its  keen  odor  of  the 
seas,  and  the  warm  sands  beneath  quickened  her  Ian- 


POLL   JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  291 

guid  pulses,  Poll  lay  hour  after  hour,  and  dreamed,  — • 
not  such  dreams  as  girls  have  whose  life  is  led  among 
luxury  and  society,  but  pure  visions  of  far-off  countries 
beyond  the  ocean,  whose  birds  and  flowers  and  trees 
were  all  of  earth's  brightest,  and  all  quickened  with 
the  acute  life  of  the  sea  itself  to  poignant  beauty. 
Here,  in  this  paradise,  no  mocking  mirth,  no  harsh 
word,  no  cold  or  storm,  intruded ;  and  in  its  castles  a 
new  life  dawned  for  the  fisherman's  girl,  that  held  her 
in  its  trance  safe  from  the  harshness  of  her  own,  and 
lapped  her  in  its  soft  sweetness  from  all  that  was  hard 
and  bitter  in  reality.  So  all  the  summer  days  passed 
away,  lying  on  the  shore,  or  wandering  on  the  sand-hills 
that  rolled  back  to  sand-plains  or  boggy  stretches  of 
inland ;  plains  that  had  their  own  treasures  of  great 
open-eyed  violets,  azure  as  the  sky  above,  or  white  as 
its  clouds, — milky  strawberry-blooms  and  clusters  of 
their  scarlet  fragrant  fruits,  crowding  flowers  of  pink 
and  purple,  trails  of  starry  blackberry-vines,  and 
swamps  that  beguiled  her  wandering  feet  through  fra 
grant  thickets  of  bay  berry,  tangled  with  catbrier  and 
sweetbrier,  to  great  blueberry-bushes,  hanging  thick 
with  misty  blue  spheres,  aromatic  and  sweet  with  a 
sweetness  no  tropic  suns  can  give ;  while  beside  them 
bloomed  the  splendid  wild  lily,  set  thick  as  a  pagoda 
with  bells  ;  and  at  its  foot  the  rare  orange  orchis  showed 
its  concentred  sunshine,  and  regal  cardinal-flowers 
flamed  through  the  thin  grass  with  spikes  of  velvet  fire. 
Not  a  flower  blossomed,  or  a  fruit  ripened,  for  miles 
about,  that  Poll  did  not  know  :  it  was  she  who  hung  the 
shelf  above  the  chimney  with  bundles  of  spearmint, 
peppermint,  boneset,  marsh-rosemary,  pennyroyal, 
mountain-mint,  tansy,  catnip,  sweet-fern,  sweet-cicely, 


292  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

prince 's-piny,  sassafras-root,  winter-green,  and  birch- 
bark.  part  the  gatherings  of  her  own  rambles  at  home, 
part  a  tribute  from  her  sisters  up  the.  country,  who 
brought  Poll  only  ' '  yarbs ' '  instead  of  the  squashes 
for  Ruth,  the  apples  that  filled  Jane's  apron,  and  the 
hickory-nuts  Adeline  cracked  in  her  great  white  teeth. 
So  things  went  on  till  Poll  was  seventeen,  and  our 
story  begins ;  when  Jane's  lover  came  home  and  they 
were  married,  and  Adeline  betook  herself  to  see  Nancy, 
leaving  only  the  eldest  and  youngest  of  the  seven  sis 
ters  at  home  for  the  winter  that  set  in  early  and  bitter. 
The  last  day  of  November  was  a  wild  north-easter : 
rain,  that  the  fierce  wind  drove  aslant  against  the  hut 
windows,  froze  as  fast  as  it  fell,  and  while  Ruth  sat  by 
the  stove,  and  sewed,  drawing  once  in  a  while  one  of 
those  deep  sighs  that  are  the  echoes  of  a  great  sorrow 
gone  past,  Poll  pressed  her  face  against  the  blurred 
window-pane  to  see  the  storm  she  dared  not  be  out  in  ; 
and,  while  she  looked  and  dreamed,  the  outer  door  burst 
open,  and  in  came  her  father,  dripping  as  if  he  had 
been  drowned,  followed  by  a  stout  young  fellow  as  pale 
as  a  sheet,  carrying  his  right  arm  in  a  sling. 

"I  veow  !  "  said  old  Abe,  shaking  himself  like  a 
great  water-dog,  ef  this  a'n't  about  the  most  weather- 
some  weather  I  ever  see.  I  ha'n't  ben  only  jest  out 
side  the  bar,  an'  my  jib's  as  stiff  as  a  tin  pan,  and  the 
old  fo'sail  took  an'  cracked  fore  an'  aft  afore  I  could 
get  her  head  on  so's  to  run  in.  Ef  I  hadn't  a  had 
Sam  Bent  here  along,  I  dono  but  what  I  should  ha'  ben 
swamped,  whether  or  no.  He  and  me  both  done  our 
darnedest,  and  then  I'll  be  drowned  ef  he  didn't  fall 
foul  of  a  board 't  was  all  glib  ice,  jest  as  we  was  a-land- 
in'  :  up  flew  his  heels,  and  he  kinder  lay  to  on  his  right 


POLL   JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  293 

arm,  so't  I  expect  it's  broke.  I  slung  it  up  with  my 
old  comforter  till  he  could  get  under  hatches  here,  'n' 
now  you  gals  must  take  keer  on  him  till  I  make  sail 
over  to  Punkintown,  and  get  that  are  nateral  bone-setter 
to  come  along  and  splice  him." 

Sam  Bent  was  no  stranger  to  the  girls  ;  but,  though 
Poll  had  often  seen  him  before,  she  had  never  ex 
changed  half  a  dozen  words  with  him.  But  ceremonies 
are  spared  at  Southside  :  so  Poll  took  the  scissors  which 
Ruth  handed  her,  and  proceeded  to  cut  the  sleeve  of 
Sam  Bent's  coat  and  jacket,  while  her  sister  set  a 
spare  bedroom  to  rights,  and  brewed  some  herb- tea, 
lest  the  youth  might  be  ordered  a  sweat.  Poll's  fingers 
were  slight  and  careful,  and  she  did  her  office  tenderly, 
—  even  Sam  felt  it  through  the  pain  of  his  doubly- 
broken  arm ;  and  when  at  length  Abe  returned  from 
his  walk  to  Punkintown,  a  settlement  some  four  miles 
inland,  he  found  Sam,  released  from  his  heavy  pea- 
jacket  and  coat,  wrapped  in  Poll's  shawl,  with  his  feet 
to  the  fire,  about  as  comfortable  as  he  could  have  been 
under  the  disadvantages  of  the  occasion.  The  "nat 
eral  bone-setter ' '  worked  his  usual  wonders  on  the 
occasion,  and,  having  duly  splintered  and  bandaged 
the  young  man,  took  his  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
began  to  snap  the  blade  out  and  in  as  a  preliminary  to 
conversation,  while  he  tilted  his  chair  back  against  the 
wall,  and  cleared  his  throat  with  a  vigorous  "  ahem." 

"Well,  sir,  well,  sir,"  began  Dr.  Higgs,  "that  job 
is  done,  sir.  You  will  have  rather  of  a  procrastinat 
ing  season  with  such  a  fracter  as  that  is  ;  but  patience 
is  a  virtoo,  sir.  Yes,  sir,  and  so  is  patients  too,  we 
doctors  think.  He,  he,  he  !  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  Well,  I  am 
pleased  to  see  you  reciprocate  my  little  joke.:  ray t her 


294  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

hard  to  be  ludiciously  inclined,  sir,  under  the  proximity 
of  corporal  anguish.  Ahem :  shows  you  have  good 
grit  into  you.  I  expect  you'll  become  evanescent  very 
rapid,  if  you  don't  catch  a  cold,  nor  over-eat,  nor 
over-do  the  prudential,  noway.  Do  you  reside  in  these 
parts,  sir?  " 

"  I  live  over  to  Mystic  when  I'm  to  home,"  modestly 
replied  Sam,  overcome  with  this  torrent  of  words,  but, 
fortunately  for  him,  not  knowing  the  difference  between 
evanescent  and  convalescent. 

"Well,  I  can't  recommend  to  you  a  removal  to 
your  natyve  spere  immediately,  sir.  No,  sir,  I  should 
rayther  advise  you,  in  order  to  abrogate  your  confine 
ment  as  much  as  possible,  to  remain  where  you  be.  If 
any  febrifugal  disorders  was  to  set  in,  it  would  con 
catenate  the  fracter,  sir.  Very  serious,  very  serious  ! 
You  will  want  considerble  nussin' ,  I  think  proberble  ; 
and,  if  you  can  indooce  this  here  old  gentleman  to 
inhabitate  you  for  a  spell,  why,  I  should  counsel  you 
to  become  stationary  for  the  present." 

"I  guess  I  a'n't  a-goin'  for  to  turn  Sam  Bent  out 
o'  my  cabin,  ef  'twa'n't  no  bigger'n  a  yawl-boat's 
locker,"  growled  old  Abe.  "He's  his  father's  son, 
'n'  that's  enough,  if  he  was  the  miserblest  hoss-shoe 
crab  't  ever  left  his  back  behind  him.  Poll  here  can 
nuss  him.  She  a'n't  good  for  much  but  pokin'  round, 
'n'  it's  too  cousarned  cold  to  do  that  this  kind  o' 
clymit." 

"Well,  sir,  well,  sir,  I'll  call  over  agin  to-morrer, 
ef  the  weather  is  convenable.  I  am  a-comin'  into  this 
region  to  see  a  poor  indignant  female  who  is  laid  up 
with  a  neuralogy  of  the  marrer-bones,  so't  mebbe  I 
shall  be  rather  delayed  in  gettin'  around  ;  but  I'm  sure 


POLL   JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  295 

certain  to  be  on  hand,  Providence  permitting,  before 
noon  —  by  night  whether  or  no.  Good-day,  good- 
day  !  "  Wherewith  the  verbose  doctor  departed  ;  and 
Sam  Bent,  suddenly  looking  up,  caught  a  little  flicker 
of  fun  just  fading  out  of  Poll's  great  eyes,  and  laughed 
outright. 

"  He  bears  up  hard  onto  big  words,  don't  he?  "  said 
Sam,  whose  genuine  nature  detected  the  pretension  he 
did  not  understand.  "He's  a  kind  of  a  nateral  dic 
tionary,  I  guess."1 

Poll's  eyes  danced,  and  Sam  fixed  a  long  look  on 
her.  He  didn't  know  why,  no  more  did  she  ;  but,  being 
both  uncivilized  enough  to  feel  and  think  without  ask 
ing  why  or  how,  they  were  not  concerned  about  the 
matter.  And,  when  Sam  Bent  was  safely  convoyed  to 
bed  in  the  queer  little  five-angled  room  allotted  to  him, 
he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  he  was  drawing  a  seine  on 
the  north  shore,  and  a  great  sting-ray  stood  up  on  its 
tail,  and  turned  into  Dr.  Higgs  ;  while  Poll  only  lis 
tened  to  the  storm  outside,  and  fancied  that  she  heard 
minute-guns  and  shrieks  of  terror  through  the  wild 
wind,  and  at  length  slept  too  heavily  to  dream.  But 
for  all  this  a  great  guest  was  drawing  near  to  the  fish 
erman's  hut,  though  in  silence  and  secrecy,  —  a  guest 
that  pagans  hailed  with  wine  and  roses,  wreaths  of 
myrtle,  and  dances  of  joy,  but  we,  sadder  and  wiser, 
welcome  oftenest  with  trembling  and  wonder.  Poll 
knew  neither.  She  never  even  stopped  to  wonder  why 
she  cared  no  more  to  search  the  beach  for  its  treasures, 
or  pore  over  the  odd  pictures  in  their  Bible.  Nor  did 
Sam  Bent  ever  suspect  why  he  liked  to  have  his 
bandages  renewed  daily,  his  black  hair  smoothed  for 
him,  and  his  black  ribbon  knotted  so  carefully  under 


296  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

the  coarse  white  collar  that  set  off  the  muscular  throat 
and  handsome  head  above  it.  Sam  would  not  have 
cared  if  his  broken  arm  was  not  set  for  six  months, 
he  liked  so  well  his  self-elected  office  of  teacher  to 
Poll,  who  was  learning  to  read  at  his  knee  like  a  child, 
and  listening  to  his  discourses  of  other  lands  (as  she 
considered  Maine  and  Georgia)  with  as  much  eager 
ness  as  if  he  had  been  Hakluyt  himself,  instead  of 
foremast  hand  to  a  coasting-schooner.  Under  the 
pressure  of  her  new  duties,  Poll  grew  into  new  devel 
opments.  She  became  far  more  handy  about  the  house  ; 
she  spoke  oftener  of  her  own  accord  ;  she  moved  more 
rapidly,  and  never  a  hole  in  her  apron  or  her  frock  lay 
an  hour  unmended  now ;  and,  taking  patient  lessons 
of  Ruth,  she  learned  to  mend  Sam's  stockings  so 
nicely,  that  he,  at  least,  considered  it  an  ornament 
to  have  had  a  hole  in  the  most  conspicuous  quarter 
possible. 

But  at  last  Sam  got  well,  and  could  not  evade  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  doing  nothing  for  two  months 
but  receiving  care  and  a  home  ;  and  he  began  to  wonder 
to  himself  what  he  could  ever  do  to  escape  from  this 
heavy  weight  of  obligation.  Now  it  never  was  sup 
posed  in  old  times  that  the  aforesaid  little  deity  med 
dled  with  lesser  things  than  flowers  and  jewels ;  but 
great  is  civilization !  In  its  faintest  influence  comes 
a  subtlety  unknown  to  dear  primeval  days  ;  and  at  this 
juncture  love  —  if  love  it  was  —  dropped  a  timely  rheu 
matism  on  Uncle  Abe's  old  back  ;  and,  the  day  after 
Sam  Bent  left  off  his  sling,  the  poor  old  fisherman  came 
home  groaning  and  hobbling,  and,  I  regret  to  say, 
swearing  after  his  own  fishy  fashion. 

"Darn   it!"    growled  he,   as  he  let  himself  down 


POLL   JENNINGS'S    HAIR.  297 

into  an  old  rush-bottomed  chair  that  stood  by  the  fire. 
"I'll  be  jiggered  if  I  a'n't  got  to  be  in  docks  now! 
I  couldn't  but  jest  h'ist  her  over  the  bar,  V  make  out 
to  git  ashore.  Flat-fish  'n'  flounders  !  I  ha' n't  had 
such  a  spell  sence  ten  year  back ;  'n'  what's  goin'  to 
become  of  the  eyester  bisness  I  should  like  ter  tell  ?  ' ' 

"You'd  better  take  a  sweat  right  away,  father," 
said  Ruth,  taking  down  the  sheaf  of  boneset  for  the 
necessary  brewage. 

"  Sweat !  I  calk'late  I  shall  sweat  enough  with  this 
here  screwin'  in  my  bones,  gal !  Loddy  Doddy  !  ef  I 
don't  yell  an'  holler  afore  daybreak,  I  shall  miss  my 
reckonin'  ;  and  all  the  eyesters  in  the  bay '11  be  raked 
up  afore  I'm  stirrin'  agin,  for  alPt  I  know." 

"  No,  they  won't,  Uncle  Abe  !  "  said  Sam  sturdily, 
coming  up  to  the  fire  as  he  spoke.  "  Ha'n't  I  had  a 
free  passage  here  nigh  on  to  two  months,  'n'  you 
think  I  a'n't  goin'  for  to  work  it  out?  I  ken  work 
'  The  Mary  Ann '  fust-rate,  and  I  know  the  lay  of 
the  beds  pretty  near  as  well  as  anybody.  I'm  all  right 
now  ;  and  here  I  am,  standin'  on  my  feet,  ready  to  do 
the  most  a  feller  can,  though  I  don't  never  expect  I 
can  work  out  the  kind  o'  care  I've  hed  along  back." 
With  which  Sam  cast  a  sheep 's-eye  at  Poll's  place, 
and  beheld  —  nobody;  for  she  was  behind  him,  look 
ing  hard  out  of  the  window  at  the  new  and  interesting 
prospect  of  an  old  seine  and  two  wash-tubs  —  back 
ground  a  sand-hill.  But  Poll's  eyes  were  too  misty  to 
see  ;  and  her  rough,  red  skin  flushed  to  purple  as  she 
heard  her  father  go  on  :  — 

"Hold  hard,  Sam!  You're  your  dad's  son:  there 
a'n't  a  doubt  on't.  Old  'Paphro  Bent  never  see  a  dis 
tress-signal  h'isted,  but  what  he  lay  to,  an'  sent  aboard. 


300  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

oughly  enjoyed  having  a  home  to  go  to,  and  exulted 
in  his  pupil's  progress,  who  had  got  so  far  as  to  read 
fluently  the  book  of  fairy-tales  he  bought  for  her  in 
New  York  by  the  first  of  April.  But  with  April  home 
came  Adeline  ;  and,  Adeline  being  one  of  those  women 
who  are  born  coquettes,  great  was  her  delight  at 
finding  a  handsome  young  fellow  like  Sam  Bent  domes 
ticated  in  her  house,  and  of  course  she  immediately 
began  a  vigorous  flirtation  with  him.  Now,  Adeline 
was  a  sort  of  woman  Sam  had  seen  before,  understood, 
and  held  in  small  account.  With  Poll  he  was  respect 
ful,  shy,  timid,  yet  self-respectful ;  but  he  laughed, 
jested,  and  romped  with  "Addy,"  spoke  to  her  as  if 
she  were  another  fisherman,  helped  her  to  dig  clams, 
and  sculled  her  boat  across  the  bay  with  as  much  ease 
and  carelessness  as  if  she  had  been  a  boy.  Poor  Poll ! 
She  did  not  know  why  she  grew  cross  to  Adeline,  and 
silent  to  Sam.  Something  told  her  that  she  ought  not 
to  steal  away  to  her  old  haunts,  and  neglect  her  home 
work,  and  let  her  father  shift  for  himself  as  best  he 
could  ;  yet  Poll  did  all  this,  and  the  sea  and  sky  com 
forted  her  no  more.  Neither  was  she  particularly  con 
soled  by  hearing  from  her  sleepless  pillow,  one  night, 
Ruth  remonstrating  with  Adeline  on  her  manners  to 
Sam. 

"I  don't  like  to  have  you  make  so  free  with  Sam 
Bent,  Addy,"  said  poor  prim  Ruth,  who  had  never 
given  so  much  as  one  kiss  to  Jonas  Scranton  before 
he  sailed  away  to  be  drowned,  and  probably  regretted 
it  still.  4t  'Tain't  mannerly  to  be  a-rompin'  round  so 
with  a  young  feller. ' ' 

"  O  law  !  "  laughed  Addy  ;  "  jest  as  ef  I  was  goin' 
to  be  stuck  up  with  Sam  Bent !  I  like  to  plague  him. 


POLL   JENNINGS'S    HAIR. 


He's  ben  cooped  up  all  winter  with  you  an'  Poll  till  he 
wants  a  livenin'  up." 

''  Well,  'tain't  a  good  thing  for  Poll  to  see  you  a-be- 
havin'  so,  Addy.  Maybe  she  might  take  to  them  ways, 
'n'  she  a'  n't  a  kind  to  take  things  so  easy  as  you 
do,  'n'  maybe  folks  would  think  hard  of  her  ef  she 
should  f  oiler  your  manners  ;  for  you  never  was  nothin' 
but  a  kitten,  sence  you  was  knee-high  to  a  hoptoad." 

Adeline  laughed  harcter  than  ever.  "Well,  I  de 
clare  !  "  said  she.  "  As  ef  our  Poll  would  ever  take  to 
kitin'  after  a  feller  like  Sam  Bent  !  I  guess  he  would 
feel  crawly  if  she  did,  poor  cretur  !  That  red  hair  and 
pink-red  face  of  her'n  a'n't  very  takin'."  With 
which  she  resumed  her  laughter  as  if  the  idea  was 
delightfully  absurd. 

Ruth  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  knit  more  energetically 
than  ever.  She  might  as  well  have  exhorted  the  sea- 
spray  as  Adeline.  She  never  even  moved  her  to  petu 
lance  with  her  exhortations,  which  would  have  been 
some  comfort.  But  Poll  turned  her  face  to  her  pillow, 
crushed  and  heart-sick  ;  and  slow,  hot  tears  crept 
down  her  cheeks  one  after  another,  as  she  thought  of 
her  happy  winter  evenings,  of  Sam  Bent's  shy,  kind 
looks,  and,  as  climax,  of  her  own  horrid  red  hair,  and 
rough  skin,  and  saucer-eyes.  Poor  Poll  ! 

But  by  May  Uncle  Abe's  rheumatism  began  to  be 
forgotten  :  his  sturdy  legs  ached  no  more,  his  back 
straightened  out,  and  his  weather-beaten  face  recovered 
its  old  look  of  kindly  shrewdness,  and  he  was  as  fit  as 
ever  to  handle  "  The  Mary  Ann."  So  Sam  had  been 
"  down  to  York,"  and  got  a  place  as  foremast  hand  on 
a  brig  bound  for  China,  to  sail  the  first  of  June,  a 
good  place,  and  good  wages.  Yet  somehow  Poll  did 


298  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

But  you're  a  youn<f  feller,  'n'  I  a'n't  a-goin'  for  to 
take  your  vittles  'n'  put  'em  into  my  jaws.  You  ken 
git  a  bunk  aboard  of  any  coaster,  'n'  get  your  wages 
reg'lar :  so  you  'bout  ship,  and  mind  your  own  helium. 
I  can  keep  to  my  anchorage,  I  guess,  for  a  spell ;  'n' 
it's  no  use  starving  while  them  gals  has  got  legs  to 
go  and  dig  clams.  I  shall  weather  it,  boy ;  though  I 
don't  say  but  what  you're  a  good  feller  to  think  on't." 

"Now  look  at  here,  Uncle  Abe,"  said  Sam  vehe 
mently,  setting  his  feet  as  wide  apart,  and  bracing  his 
hands  on  his  hips  as  firmly,  as  if  he  expected  old  Abe 
to  make  a  rush  at  him,  and  try  to  upset  him,  "  'tain't 
no  use  hailin'  this  here  schooner  with  that  kind  of  talk. 
I  a'n't  a-goin'  coastin'.  I  a'u't  goin'  away.  I  wish 
I  may  be  drownded  off  Hatter  as,  and  come  ashore  at 
Point  Judy,  if  I  do  !  I'm  a-goin'  eyesterin',  an'  deep-sea 
fishin'  in  'The  Mary  Ann,'  till  that  darned  rheumatiz 
o'  yours  goes  to  Joppy,  ef  it  lasts  till  day  after  never  ; 
'n'  ef  you  won't  give  me  night's  lodgiii's  and  a  meal 
of  vittles  here,  why,  I'll  go  over  to  Squamkeag  Light 
Jn'  get  'em  out  o'  Ben  Gould :  so  there's  the  hull 
on't !  "  With  which  peroration  Sam  turned  away,  and 
spat  energetically  into  the  fire. 

Old  Abe  held  his  peace  a  minute.  It  was  hard  for 
the  sturdy  man»to  own 'his  dependence,  to  become  use 
less  ;  and  Sam's  strong  youth  and  manhood  mixed 
regret  with  his  simple  willingness  of  acceptance. 

"Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "Lord  knows  I'd  foller 
the  sea  till  I  dropped  ef  I  hadn't  no  rheumatiz  ;  but  a 
rotten  hulk  a'n't  no  use  outside.  You  ken  take  '  The 
Mary  Ann,'  Sam  Bent.  She's  easy  handled,  and  she's 
cute  enough  of  herself  to  keep  school  to-morrer,  'n'  I 
can  tell  you  the  lay  of  the  eyester-beds  tollerble  well. 


POLL   JEKNTNGS'S   HAIR.  299 

But  look  here,  young  feller,  ef  I  catch  you  a-takin'  a 
meal  of  vittles,  or  a  night's  sleep,  over  to  Ben  Gould's, 
you'll  hear  thunder,  'n'  ketch  lightnin'." 

"Well,  I  won't,"  laughed  Sam;  and  so  the  matter 
ended.  And  old  Abe  was  put  to  bed  with  the  dose  of 
boneset,  and  rose  no  more  for  long  weeks, — long 
enough  to  Ruth ;  for  a  sick  man's  attendant  has  no 
sinecure.  But  Poll  never  wearied  of  the  lingering  days, 
for  a  step  tramping  over  the  sand-hills,  and  a  broad, 
brown  face  full  of  honest  delight,  waited  to  charrn  the 
day's  ending,  and  in  that  anticipation  nothing  seemed 
dull  or  dreary.  Nor  did  ever  any  man  have  gentler 
nursing  than  Poll  lavished  on  her  cross  and  unrea 
sonable  old  father.  One  hears  vast  blame  laid  upon 
lovers  for  their  seeming  sweetness  and  excellence  while 
yet  love  is  new;  but  is  not  the  blame  unjust?  For 
what  can  call  out  the  latent  lovelinesses  of  any  charac 
ter,  if  the  one  rose  of  life  does  not  win  them  to  the  sur 
face?  Lost  in  that  divine  blooming,  wrapped  in  that 
sacred  spell,  shall  not  the  desert  blossom,  and  the  sands 
glitter  with  flowing  springs  ?  Still  a  desert ;  still  the 
red  sands  :  let  us  rather  bless  the  transformer  than  sneer 
at  the  transformation.  So  the  winter  wore  on ;  and 
if,  in  its  routine,  there  was  any  bitterness,  it  was  only 
when  storms  swept  over  the  hut  with  fierce  scream  and 
heavy  pinions,  and  Ruth  shuddered  over  her  dead 
lover,  Poll  over  her  living  one.  Meanwhile  no  storms 
wrecked  Sam  Bent.  He  raked  oysters,  and  caught 
sea-bass,  halibut,  porgies,  and  various  other  finny 
creatures,  in  quantities  unknown ;  discovered  a  new 
oyster-bed  "  inside,"  in  one  of  his  long  voyages  round 
Montauk ;  and  made  money  at  a  rate  that  pleased 
him  even  more  than  it  did  old  Abe :  while  he  thor- 


302  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 


not  receive  the  news  joyfully  ;  and  she  said  nothing  at 
all  to  Sam  Bent  when  he  came  to  announce  it. 

Poll  was  not  magnanimous  ;  but  who  is  —  among 
women?  That  is  not  their  forte.  A  thousand  other 
virtues  flourish  with  them ;  but  this  is  the  millennial 
grace,  and  Poll  owned  it  not.  She  was  as  weak,  as 
selfish,  as  jealous,  as  a  humble  and  ugly  woman  is  apt 
to  be  when  she  is  in  love  ;  and  I  shall  not  blame  her, 
though  I  know  there  are  plenty  who  will.  So,  when 
Ruth  had  said  quietly,  "I'm  real  glad,  Sam,  but  we 
shall  kinder  miss  you  ; ' '  and  Adeline  had  giggled  out, 
"Well,  that  is  first-rate,  'n'  I  guess  you'll  have  to 
get  me  something  real  pretty  over  to  Chiny,"  —Sam 
missed  one  voice  that  was,  after  all,  the  only  one  he 
cared  for ;  and,  looking  round,  saw  Poll's  blue-check 
gown  flutter  away  over  the  top  of  a  sand-hill,  past  the 
window.  "I  declare  for't,"  said  Sam,  "  if  I  hain't 
left  a  lot  o'  little  fixin's  down  in  '  The  Mary  Ann,'  't 
I  brought  from  York.  I'll  jest  step  down  and  fetch 
'em." 

I  regret  to  say  that  Sam  had  left  them  on  purpose, 
having  already  learned  the  strategic  lesson  of  lovers,  in 
order  to  provide  some  sure  way  of  excuse  to  meet  or 
follow  Poll,  if  she  should  happen  to  be  out  of  the 
house.  Would  he  have  followed  her,  had  he  known 
that  she  ran  away  to  avoid  him  ?  lie  might  have  been 
a  fool  for  his  pains,  like  other  men.  But  it  happened 
he  had  no  provocation :  so  he  betook  himself  to,  or 
toicard,  "The  Mary  Ann,"  but,  as  soon  as  the  house 
was  hidden,  changed  his  course,  and  followed  after  the 
light  track  of  Poll's  steps  till  they  were  lost  in  the 
thick  beach-grass.  Poor  child !  she  had  thrown  her 
self  down  in  the  glittering  blades,  and  buried  her  head 


POLL   JEKNTNGS'S    HAIE.  303 

in  her  apron.  Faster  than  the  clear  green  waves,  that 
rolled  relentless  splendors  on  the  failing  shore  below, 
did  the  heavy  surges  of  her  first  sorrow  thunder  and 
sweep  above  her  shrinking  heart.  Sam  was  going 
away.  That  was  first ;  and  then  came  in  the  shame, 
the  self-contempt,  the  bitter  grief,  that  had  racked  and 
wasted  her  ever  since  she  overheard  Ruth  and  Addy 
talking  about  her  that  unhappy  night.  What  if  he  did 
stay?  He  wouldn't  care  for  her,  handsome  fellow! 
How  could  he  bear  to  look  at  such  a  homely  thing  as 
she?  And  that  dreadful  hair  !  so  red,  and  so  much  of 
it !  If  Poll  had  ever  read  novels,  she  might  have  torn 
it  and  scattered  it  with  highly  appropriate  gestures. 
But  she  had  not :  so  she  let  her  hair  alone,  and  only 
cried,  and  wished  she  was  any  body  or  any  thing  but 
Poll  Jennings.  Even  a  little  fiddler-crab  in  its  hole 
was  enviable,  since  it  never  cared  for  Sam  Bent,  and 
hadn't  got  red  hair. 

Between  the  thunder  of  the  surf,  and  the  checked 
apron  that  covered  her  ears  and  tried  to  stifle  her  sobs, 
Poll  heard  nothing ;  but,  in  the  midst  of  her  passive 
anguish,  suddenly  a  strong  arm  was  passed  round  her ; 
and,  stunned  with  surprise,  she  found  herself  lifted  on 
to  Sam  Bent's  knee.  Any  woman  who  knew  any  thing 
would  have  sprung  to  her  feet  and  blazed  with  anger, 
told  seven  lies  in  one  breath,  defied  and  scorned  Sam, 
and  sent  him  to  China  a  broken-hearted  man,  indiffer 
ent  to  sharks  and  cholera,  to  be  rewarded,  perhaps, 
after  ten  years,  with  an  elderly  and  acetous  woman  as 
the  meed  of  constancy.  But  Poll  was  a  little  fool :  she 
just  laid  her  head  against  Sam's  red  shirt,  and  sobbed 
harder  than  ever.  Sam  choked :  he  couldn't  speak, 
and  yet  he  wanted  to  swear.  Finally  he  sputtered  out, 


304  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Poll,  what's  to  pay  ?  "  No  answer,  only  a  great  big 
sob  that  seemed  to  shake  the  little  creature  in  his  arms 
all  over,  and  made  it  incumbent  on  Sam  to  clasp  her 
still  tighter. 

So  he  tried  again  :  — 

"  Poll,  don't !  Hold  up,  dear  !  Don't  keep  a-cryin' 
so !  "  Useless  remonstrance  ;  for,  though  the  sobs 
ceased,  bright  drops  of  salt  water  that  the  sea  dis 
owned  went  hopping  down  that  red  flannel  shirt  in  a 
deliberate  way,  as  if  they  didn't  care  to,  but  rather 
thought  it  best. 

"  Polly,"  repeated  Sam  in  a  gentler  tone. 

"What?"  said  Poll  faintly,  lifting  her  head,  and 
wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron. 

"  Don't  do  that !  I  see  you  through  the  winder,  and 
I  follered  along ;  for  you  see,  Poll,  I'm  a-going  to 
Chiny,  'n'  I  wanted  to  —  I  —  well  —  I  dono.  Poll, 
when  I  come  back  will  you  marry  me  ?  ' ' 

Poll's  eyes  opened  wider  and  brighter  than  ever. 
She  drew  back,  and  looked  into  Sam's  face  :  her  cheek 
flushed  as  she  met  his  steady  gaze. 

"  Don't  make  fun  of  me  !  "  said  she  piteously. 

Sam's  eyes  blazed.  "Make  fun  of  you!  "  said  he 
indignantly.  "Why,  Poll  Jinnins !  what  are  you 
thinkin'  about?  I  should  think  you  might  believe  a 
feller  was  honest  when  he  said  that. ' ' 

"  O  Sam  !  "  pleaded  Poll,  with  moist  eyes. 

"  Will  you,  Poll?" 

"But  —  but  —  oh!"  said  she  with  half  a  sob. 
"  Are  you  sure,  Sam  ?  " 

"  Sure  of  what?" 

"  Sure  you  like  me,"  courageously  ventured  Poll. 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  else  I'm  so  sure  on,"  said 
he  dryly. 


POLL   JENNINGS'S    HAIR.  305 

"  But  I've  got  such  red  hair,  Sam  !  " 

Sam  laughed  outright.  He  could  not  help  it.  But 
those  great  hazel  eyes,  full  of  vague  apprehension,  and 
the  trembling  lips,  sobered  him. 

44  Well,  Poll,  I  think  your  hair  is  the  prettiest  thing 
to  you  by  a  long  sight.  Sence  I  see  it  tumble  down 
once,  when  you  was  a-biudin'  up  my  arm,  I  ha'n't 
never  see  the  sun  risin'  acrost  the  water  but  what  I've 
thought  on't :  it's  just  like  the  wake  the  sun  makes,  — 
kinder  crinkly,  and  yet  slick  and  bright,  and  kinder 
draws  your  eyes  to't.  I  wouldn't  change  your  hair  for 
nobody's  't  ever  I  see." 

With  which  Sam  withdrew  the  comb  from  the  mas 
sive  knot,  and  its  great  bright  coil  slipped  down  over 
Poll's  neck,  and  across  his  arm,  and  spread  into  a  veil 
of  length  and  splendor  Athene  might  have  coveted, 
had  she  "been  there  to  see."  Sam's  big  brown  fist 
grasped  the  silken  waves ;  and,  bringing  them  round 
before  Poll's  face,  he  caressed  his  capture  as  if  it  were 
real  gold,  and  he  a  miser,  threaded  it  through  his  fin 
gers,  held  it  in  bright  bows  up  to  the  sunshine,  stroked 
its  ripples  over  his  unoccupied  knee,  till  Poll,  who  had 
innocently  laid  one  arm  round  his  neck  while  she  looked 
on,  fairly  smiled  ;  but  a  sigh  followed  instantly. 

44  But  I  am  so  humly,  Sam  !  "  [Homely,  she  meant.] 

44  Well,"  said  Sam,  dropping  the  hair,  and  putting 
both  arms  round  her,  44  what  if  you  be?  And  I  don't 
say't  I  think  you're  like  a  pink-and- white  figure-head 
to  a  liner.  I  a'n't  one  o'  them  that  buys  a  boat  for  its 
paint.  I  never  see  a  handsome  gal  I  liked  half  so  well, 
'n'  I  guess  I  wouldn't  'a'  had  no  better  care  out  o'  the 
prettiest  cretur  betwixt  the  reefs  and  the  banks  than  I 
had  last  winter.  Besides,  Poll,  to  my  mind  your  hair's 


306  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

a  sight  prettier 'n  most  folks 's  hull  faces;  'n',  if  your 
eyes  be  ruther  big,  they're  as  bright  as  two  starn-lan- 
terns  any  day,  'n'  as  soft  as  a  gull's  be.  I  don't  know 
what  for  you  want  to  quarrel  with  your  looks,  so  long's 
I  don't." 

A  more  fastidious  man  would  not  have  found  fault 
with  the  look  she  gave  Sam  now,  —  so  tender,  so  inno 
cently  glad,  so  trustful ;  and,  if  Sam  gave  no  audible 
reply,  it  was  none  the  less  fervently  answered,  and  for 
the  next  hour  Poll  was  happy.  No  more  visions  of 
over-sea  now,  no  dream  of  tropic  shores  and  un wither 
ing  blossoms :  her  tropic  had  come,  and  her  fadeless 
flowers  burst  into  glowing  life.  Her  beautiful  head 
safe  on  Sam's  shoulder,  and  her  face  buried  in  his 
strong  breast,  except  when  he  would  lift  it  up  to  be 
kissed,  she  had  no  thought  for  the  past  or  future  :  the 
only  ' '  now ' '  of  life  held  her  fast ;  and  in  its  sweet 
embrace  she  lay  basking  till  common  life,  in  the  shape 
of  Adeline,  came  full  upon  the  deaf  lovers,  and  re 
marked  sharply,  — 

"Well,  if  you  hadn't  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Sam 
Bent,  out  here  in  the  grass  a-huggin'  and  kissin'  our 
Poll!" 

Sam  rose  up  with  a  laugh,  carrying  Poll  with  him, 
circled  still  in  his  arm. 

"  She's  my  Poll  now,  Addy.  I  don't  know  who's 
a  better  right !" 

"  Good  Jehoshaphat !  "  said  old  Abe,  who  had  also 
come  up  behind  Adeline. 

At  this  singular  expletive  Addy  herself  laughed, 
though  not  a  little  piqued  and  provoked  at  Sam's  de 
fection  from  her,  as  she  fancied  it.  "And  all  her  red 
wig  down  her  back!"  exclaimed  she,  laying  a  rough 
grasp  on  the  offending  tresses. 


POLL   JENNINGS'S    HAIR.  307 

"Hands  off,  Addy,"  threatened  Sara  smilingly. 
"That  are's  mine  too,  'n'  the  biggest  lady  in  the  land 
might  be  proud  on't,  ef  'tis  red." 

Adeline  sniffed. 

"Well,"  said  old  Abe,  regarding  the  pair  with  his 
hands  in  his  trowsers-pockets,  and  his  hat  askew,  as  if 
they  were  some  great  natural  curiosity,  ' '  this  does  beat 
all.  Our  Poll  and  Sam  Bent !  Well,  I  can't  lay  no 
course  here- away.  I  ha'n't  got  my  bearin's. — A'n't 
.a-goin'  to  trade  her  off  down  to  Chiny,  be  ye,  Sam?" 
concluded  he,  chuckling  at  his  own  facetiousness. 

"Money  wouldn't  buy  her,"  said  Sam,  with  a  smile 
that  consoled  Poll  for  the  family  depreciation ;  and, 
still  with  his  arm  round  her,  the  whole  party  drew  to 
the  hut  to  surprise  Ruth. 

She  took  it  more  quietly  and  kindly. 

"  Well,  I  won't  say  I  haven't  thought  on't  before," 
said  she.  ' '  Poll's  more  of  a  girl  latterly'n  what  she  was. 
And  looks  a'n't  of  no  account:  they  a'n't  lastin'." 
Ruth  sighed,  wondering  if  Jonas  would  know  the  sad, 
dark  face  that  looked  at  her  from  her  cracked  glass 
daily  now,  and  went  on,  "  I  don't  deny  it's  a  misfortin' 
to  have  red  hair ;  but  then  we  didn't  make  it,  'n'  can't 
mend  it :  so  it's  no  use  to  be  troubled." 

"Her  hair  is  splendid,"  growled  Sam  angrily,  a  little 
overdoing  his  praise  to  atone  for  the  insult ;  and  lifting 
the  coil  Poll  was  twisting,  to  his  lips,  he  bestowed  on 
it  a  hearty  smack. 

"Hain't  you  burnt  you?"  screeched  Adeline;  and 
Sam  could  scarce  keep  a  straight  face  till  he  saw  a  tear 
cloud  Poll's  eyes. 

"You  want  your  ears  boxed,"  said  he  to  Adeline, 
between  vexation  and  laughter. 


308  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I  guess  it'll  take  more'n  you  to  box  'em/'  was  the 
retort,  whereupon  a  slight  scuffle  ensued  ;  but  Ruth  re 
marked  to  herself  that  Sam  made  no  attempt  to  snatch 
the  expected  kiss  from  Adeline,  and  smiled  as  she 
noticed  it ;  while  Poll  knotted  up  her  hair,  and  won 
dered  at  herself  for  Sam's  sake,  and  coiled  the  "red 
wig ' '  tenderly,  because  he  had  praised  and  kissed  it. 
Forgive  her,  sensible  reader :  I  own  she  was  a  little 
fool. 

Sam  found  his  way  to  the  sloop,  and  brought  up  the 
little  package  of  gifts  for  the  girls, — Adeline's  red 
ribbon,  and  Ruth's  silver  thimble,  entirely  overtopped 
by  the  delicate  collar  and  book  of  pictures  for  Poll. 
But  this  was  natural  enough ;  though  Adeline  took 
occasion  afterward  to  remark  that  he  must  have  felt 
pretty  sure  Poll  would  have  him  when  he  bought  them, 
a  remark  utterly  neutralized  by  Poll's  naive  and  humble 
"  Why,  of  course  he  did." 

The  next  morning  Sam  said  good-by.  He  was  going 
to  Connecticut  to  see  his  grandmother,  his  only  near 
relative  living,  and  from  there  to  join  the  brig.  Poll 
cried  bitterly  but  comfortably,  if  one  may  use  so  un 
sentimental  a  word ;  for  she  had  a  heart  full  of  com 
fort,  and  just  then  it  refused  to  face  the  possibility  of 
loss,  and  bore  up  bravely  against  the  need  of  separa 
tion. 

Summer  was  come  too,  and  its  long  days  of  wander 
ing.  The  sea  laughed  again  on  the  shore,  and  flung  its 
flower-spray  over  the  relentless  rocks  till  they  looked 
only  strong,  no  longer  cruel :  the  long  grass  waved  in 
soft,  southern  winds  ;  and  the  purple  mists  of  the  hori 
zon  were  dotted  with  snowy  sails,  emerging  and  fleeing 
in  incessant,  silent  change  :  and  every  day,  that  first 


POLL  JENKINGS'S   HAIR.  309 

bright  week  of  June,  Poll  strained  her  eager  eyes  to 
see  "The  Flying  Cloud;"  and  every  ship  seemed  to 
her  the  ship  she  watched  for,  till  at  last  came  news  that 
she  had  been  spoken  far  out  at  sea  by  a  returning 
vessel,  and  after  that  Poll  watched  no  more.  But  not 
now  could  she  spend  her  whole  time  in  the  fresh  fields 
or  on  the  shore :  grave  duties  impended  over  her,  and 
Ruth  would  not  let  them  be  forgotten.  Ruth  herself 
had  been  under  a  mother's  care  when  Jonas  left  her, 
and  been  trained  to  those  duties  in  the  sweet  anticipa 
tion  of  their  exercise  in  a  home  of  her  own  ;  and  it  was 
with  bitter  memories  that  she  set  herself  to  teach  Poll 
how  to  keep  house.  Cooking  and  washing,  ironing, 
mending,  cutting  out  new  garments,  and  refitting  old 
ones,  might  have  been  a  dull  routine  to  Poll  before ; 
but  now  it  was  vividly  pleasant.  Her  imagination,  that 
hitherto,  aimless  and  void,  had  wandered  far  and  wide 
on  fair  but  profitless  journeys,  now  drew  down  its 
wings  for  a  narrower  and  more  blessed  sphere.  Love 
has  its  own  miracles,  whether  human  or  divine  ;  and 
they  who  have  known  what  it  is  to  do  every  daily  duty, 
whether  trivial  or  important,  as  for  one  dearest  object, 
toward  whom  life  tends  in  every  leaf  and  bough,  as 
toward  the  light,  can  best  understand  what  the  apostle 
meant  in  charging  his  Christian  flock  to  do  all  things 
as  "  unto  the  Lord."  But  Poll's  idol  was  of  the  earth 
as  yet.  She  knew  and  aspired  no  higher  ;  though  Sam 
Bent's  own  earnest,  rugged,  every-day  religion  had 
recommended  itself  to  her  admiration  and  reverence 
long  ago.  So  she  did  all  these  things  as  if  Sam  were 
to  be  directly  aided  and  comforted  by  them,  and  soon 
surpassed  her  teacher  in  practice  as  far  as  she  ex 
ceeded  her  in  mental  ability ;  one's  mind  having,  aftei 


310  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

all,  in  spite  of  customary  sneers  to  the  contrary,  an 
effect  on  something  besides  literary  capacity.  Before 
autumn  Uncle  Abe  discovered  that  nobody  on  the 
shore  made  chowder  like  Poll's,  or  stewed  such  flavor- 
ous  dishes  from  despised  haddock  and  chip-dry  halibut. 
Also  a  tiny  bit  of  mould  that  the  accretion  of  years  of 
refuse  had  formed  behind  the  house,  much  as  it  might 
have  on  a  coral-reef,  Poll  had  shorn  of  its  rank  weeds, 
dug,  by  means  of  an  old  fire-shovel,  and  planted  with 
onions,  beets,  and  potatoes ;  while  in  one  corner 
bloomed  and  thrived  a  daily  rosebush,  Sam's  parting 
token,  brought  from  New  York  by  Ben  Gould  the  day 
after  "The  Flying  Cloud"  sailed.  Those  pink  buds 
told  Poll  a  great  many  tender  stories  as  she  watched 
their  clean,  bright  petals  unfold  against  the  myrtle- 
green  leaves ;  and,  if  care  were  a  specific  for  rose 
bushes,  this  one  ought  to  have  flourished  even  more 
than  it  did ;  and  before  autumn  there  grew  about  it, 
like  a  court  about  a  queen,  clusters  of  every  blossom 
that  was  native  to  the  soil,  and  Poll's  u  posy-bed  "  was 
brighter  and  fairer  than  many  a  parterre  of  exotics. 

It  is  beyond  the  limits  of  fact  to  say,  as  we  would 
be  glad  to,  that  this  improvement  of  Poll's  renewed' 
her  complexion,  and  re-dyed  her  hair :  unfortunately, 
they  remained  as  rough  and  red  as  ever ;  but  she  had 
grown  so  tidy  and  so  self -respectful,  her  calico  dress 
was  always  so  clean  and  well-fitted,  her  rippling  hair 
so  smooth  and  bright,  and  carefully  knotted,  that  a 
new  attraction  embellished  her,  and  approved  itself  to 
the  housewifely  soul  of  Martha,  who  lived  up  in  the 
country,  not  two  miles  from  Mary,  and  had  come 
down  this  hot  September  "to  get  recruited  up,"  as 
she  phrased  it,  after  the  labors  of  summer.  She  was 


POLL  JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  311 

so  pleased  with  Poll,  —  whom  she  had  held  in  the  same 
estimation  that  the  rest  bestowed  on  her  formerly,  — 
that  she  asked  her  to  go  home  with  her  for  a  visit ; 
and  Poll  went. 

But  though  the  rich  meadows  and  wet  woods  of 
Ewefield  were  beautiful  enough,  in  their  green  breadth 
and  October  splendor,  to  bewitch  Poll's  unaccustomed 
eyes,  she  felt  a  strange  languor  assail  her,  and  a 
sleepy  sweetness  in  the  air  made  it  seem  hard  to 
breathe.  She  drooped  and  paled,  and  dragged  her 
heavy  feet  from  field  to  field  in  search  of  gay  maple- 
leaves  and  new  flowers,  till  she  was  fit  only  to  sink  on 
the  doorstep  when  she  got  back,  and  could  scarce 
hold  up  her  head,  it  ached  and  throbbed  so  hard. 
Long  before  the  end  of  her  month's  stay,  she  grew 
homesick  for  the  queer  old  cabin  and  the  poignant 
sea-breeze.  Martha's  gray  farmhouse,  neat  and  cool 
and  spare  as  it  was,  looked  chill  and  dreary  in  every 
square  room  and  clean  corner ;  the  dairy  smells  of 
curd  and  cheese  sickened  her  morbidly  acute  sense ; 
the  quiet  of  the  inland  pastures  and  hills  stifled  her 
like  a  shroud.  She  could  not  eat,  or  sleep,  or  work, 
and  she  did  not  know  why,  except  that  she  was  home 
sick  ;  and  she  heartily  welcomed  the  day  fixed  for  her 
to  go  home,  and  wondered  at  herself  when  the  sea- 
wind  failed  to  revive  her,  and  her  own  little  cot  to 
rest  her  aching  limbs.  But  a  day  or  two  of  increasing 
weakness  and  sleeplessness  revealed  the  secret  of 
Poll's  restless  manner  and  flushed  cheek.  In  the  steam 
ing  meadows  of  Ewefield,  its  thick  river-fogs,  and 
deep  black  swamps,  full  of  rotting  vegetation,  lurked 
the  breath  of  malaria ;  and  a  violent  fever  had  fas 
tened  upon  Poll's  unacclimated  frame,  and  begun  to 


312  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

waste  and  burn  and  destroy  like  an  invading  army. 
All  Ruth's  simples  were  tried  in  vain  ;  and  when  the 
redoubtable  Dr.  Higgs,  the  "  nateral  bone-setter," 
who  was  also  the  sole  physician  of  Punkintown,  was 
summoned,  he  pronounced  Poll  to  be  "in  a  most 
vicarious  condition,  —  repugnant  typhus,  with  a  deter- 
minacy  to  digestion  of  the  brain."  Perhaps  his  skill 
was  better  than  his  language  ;  for  he  had,  at  least, 
sense  enough  to  forbid  either  bleeding  or  blistering, 
as  old  Abe  alternately  begged  for  one  or  the  other, 
simply  because  the  only  sickness  he  ever  had  was 
allayed  by  both.  But  at  last  Poll  became  so  deliri 
ous,  and  the  danger  to  her  brain  so  great,  that  every 
bit  of  her  splendid  hair  was  shorn,  and  at  last  shaved 
off,  and  the  redundant  tresses  laid  away  in  a  drawer, 
perhaps,  as  Ruth  thought,  to  be  all  Sam  should  find 
when  he  came  back  from  China. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  by.  November  became 
December,  and  yet  Poll  wrestled  with  the  death  that 
impended  over  her ;  for,  though  the  fever  was  at 
length  mastered  and  abated,  she  was  left  in  a  state  of 
infantile  weakness,  and  it  required  all  Ruth's  most 
faithful  care  to  keep  her  in  life.  Her  mind,  too, 
seemed  feeble  as  her  body.  She  remembered  nothing, 
cared  for  nothing,  but  took  her  food  and  tonics,  and 
dozed  away  the  days.  But  by  the  middle  of  January 
she  began  to  brighten,  to  say  a  few  weak  words, 
though  evidently  Ruth  and  her  father  were  her  only 
memories.  In  her  delirium  she  had  raved  about  Sam 
and  her  red  hair,  regretted  it,  wept  over  it,  and 
caressed  it,  by  turns,  till  even  Adeline  felt  painful 
twinges  of  repentance  for  the  pain  she  had  given  the 
poor  child  in  times  past.  But  now  she  never  men- 


POLL   JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  313 

tioned  Sam's  name,  nor  alluded  to  her  hair;  and 
though  there  was  a  letter  carefully  laid  away  in  Ruth's 
drawer,  waiting  to  be  asked  for,  it  seemed  as  if  Poll 
had  forgotten  —  but  she  only  slept. 

One  warm  day  in  February  she  sat  up  by  her  win 
dow,  and  her  eye  fell  on  the  bare  branches  of  the 
little  rose-tree.  Something  stirred  in  her  brain,  a 
moment's  painful  struggle  to  catch  the  fleeting  thought, 
—  one  moment  of  that  exquisitely  painful  wandering 
and  groping  darkness  that  assails  the  weak  will  and  the 
faded  memory,  and  Poll  remembered.  Ruth  saw  the 
keen  agony  of  look  that  pierced  her  vague  eyes,  and 
died  out  almost  as  quickly,  to  renew  its  spark,  the 
flushing  and  paling  cheek,  the  tremulous  lips,  till 
those  eyes  brightened  into  certainty,  and  her  cheek 
burned  with  a  blush  and  a  smile  at  once,  and  she 
spoke. 

"  Ruth,"  said  she,  "  have  you  heard  any  thing  from 
Sam?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ruth  quietly,  stepping  to  her  drawer 
for  the  letter,  which  she  handed  to  Poll.  Perhaps  even 
you,  refined  and  well-educated  reader,  may  forgive  its 
spelling  and  grammar  if  I  venture  to  transcribe  it  over 
her  shoulder. 

AT  SEA.    August  17th 
DEEE  POLL 

This  is  to  say  I  am  alive  And  well  and  Hoap  you  enjoy  the 
saim  blesing.  we  wayed  Anker  the  first  of  June  acording  to 
orders,  and  maid  a  Steddy  run  acrost  the  atlantick  till  we 
stood  off  Sow-east  for  the  cape.  I  now  rite  in  hops  of  a  Yesel 
pasing  bye  I  rite  for  to  tell  you  agane  How  much  I  keep  a 
strate  Course  in  my  mind  for  the  Port  where  you  be  Poll,  my 
deer  I  think  of  you  evry  Day  and  likewise  when  I  keep  Watch. 
I  seem  somehow  to  sight  the  old  Cabbin,  and  the  beach-gras 
a-shinin'  all  round  you,  where  you  lay  when  I  ketched  you 


314  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOKS. 

up.  deer  I  am  no  grate  fist  at  ritin,  but  I  want  for  to  hev  you 
know  that  I  aint  One  of  that  sort  o'  Craft  that  shifts  their 
flaggs  in  knew  Places.  I  be  as  trew  to  my  bearin's  as  our 
figger-head  and  I  allays  rekollects  your  Bewtiful  hare  when  I 
see  the  Risin  Sun  acrost  the  sea.  So  no  more  at  Pressent  from 
your  loving  f rend  to  Command  SAM  BENT 

Tears  of  pleasure  filled  Poll's  eyes  as  she  read  ;  but, 
when  she  came  to  the  last  line,  a  sudden  paleness 
swept  across  her  face.  She  put  up  her  hand  gropingly 
to  her  head  :  it  was  smooth  and  soft  as  a  mouse-skin. 
"  Ruth,"  said  she  eagerly,  "  where  is  it?  " 

Ruth  had  watched  her,  and  answered,  as  if  to  a  more 
definite  question,  ' '  We  had  to  cut  it  off  when  you  were 
so  sick,  Poll :  you  wouldn't  have  got  well  without." 

Poll  lay  back  in  her  chair,  faint  and  sick.  She  said 
nothing  at  first ;  but  the  slow,  hot  tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks,  and  her  wan  face  gathered  a  look  of  pain 
that  was  sad  to  see.  The  thought  that  smote  her  so 
bitterly  was  all  of  Sam :  what  would  he  say  ?  Her 
hair,  that  was  "  the  prettiest  thing  about  her,"  that  he 
thought  of  so  far  away,  that  he  would  want  to  see. 
How  she  must  look !  And  with  that  came  a  strange 
desire  to  see  herself .  She  sat  up,  and  asked  Ruth  to 
get  her  some  tea.  A  little  stratagem  only  ;  for,  when 
she  left  the  room,  Poll  got  up  and  tottered  to  the  glass 
that  hung  by  the  window.  Poor  Poll !  the  spectacle 
was  not  pleasant,  —  a  thin  white  face,  eyes  bigger  than 
ever,  and  the  small  head  in  that  ugly  transition  from 
no  hair,  when  any  color  of  a  coining  crop  seems  only 
slaty  gray  fom  its  extreme  shortness.  Poll  turned 
away  :  she  was  altogether  humiliated.  Surely  she  might 
give  up  Sam  now  and  forever,  for  the  only  attraction 
she  had  possessed  was  gone,  and  she  was  actually  re- 


POLL  JENNINGS'S   HAIE.  315 

pulsive  besides.  She  was  too  weak  to  be  passionately 
disappointed ;  but  she  laid  herself  on  the  bed  like  a 
grieved  and  tired  child,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

A  vainer  or  a  more  selfish  woman  might  have  fretted 
and  brooded  over  her  trouble  till  the  fever  had  re 
turned  with  fatal  consequences ;  but  Poll  was  too 
absorbed  in  Sam  and  his  future  to  give  so  much 
thought  to  her  own.  She  wept  bitterly  for  days  over 
her  loss  —  and  his,  but  from  the  first  accepted  it  as  a 
fact  that  Sam  could  not  love  her  when  he  came  back, 
and  tried  earnestly  to  accustom  herself  to  the  belief. 
And  she  succeeded  very  well  till  it  occurred  to  her  one 
day  that  he  would  marry  somebody  else,  perhaps  Ade 
line,  and  then  Poll  found  she  had  not  sounded  her 
trouble  before :  she  could  no  more  face  that  thought 
than  she  could  the  looking-glass,  which  she  had  never 
looked  into  from  that  day  when  she  first  saw  herself. 
But  the  weeks  did  not  stop  to  look  at  her,  or  to  pity 
Sam  Bent. 

Spring  came  stealing  on  with  steady  advance,  and 
Poll's  naturally  tenacious  constitution  revived  in  the 
soft  airs  and  breezes.  Her  best  consolation  was  her 
old  out-of-door  haunts  ;  and,  though  she  was  now  ha 
bitually  sad  and  silent,  she  did  not  mope  or  cry,  though 
Ruth  wondered  why  she  withdrew  herself  more  and 
more  from  her  housekeeping  duties,  and  even  remon 
strated  with  her,  to  no  effect  except  saddening  her 
more  deeply,  or  bringing  about  a  brief  spasm  of  effort. 

But  Poll  might  have  looked  into  the  glass  by  the 
middle  of  May  with  good  effect.  The  long  fever  had 
either  renovated  some  torpid  function  of  her  skin,  or 
the  long  confinement  to  the  house  softened  and  soothed 
its  habitual  inflammation  ;  for  now  it  was  smooth  and 


316  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

fair  as  a  child's,  and  every  breeze  brought  to  it  a  light 
bloom  like  a  wild-rose  petal.  Her  lips  were  reddened 
with  healthy  crimson,  and  her  broad  white  brow  had 
lost  its  burned  and  tanned  look,  for  she  had  now  to 
keep  on  her  sun-bonnet,  missing  the  heavy  covering 
of  her  hair.  Yet,  to  tell  the  truth,  its  loss  was  an 
embellishment;  for  her  head  was  covered  with  thick 
soft  rings  and  curls  of  the  richest  chestnut,  glossy  as 
the  new  skin  of  that  nut,  and  fine  as  floss.  Nothing 
prettier  could  have  crowned  her  forehead,  and  shaded 
so  beautifully  with  her  eyes  of  the  same  tint,  —  a  shade 
darker,  but  softened  and  deepened  by  suffering  and 
emotion.  There  was  nobody  to  tell  Poll  all  this. 
Ruth  was  glad  her  red  hair  had  gone ;  but  she  did 
not  say  so  for  fear  of  hurting  her  feelings,  and  old  Abe- 
did  not  understand  any  beauty  but  the  type  of  sturdy 
figures,  red  cheeks,  and  black  eyes,  —  a  type  rather 
forced  on  his  admiration  by  repetition,  till  he  pre 
ferred  it  from  habit.  Adeline  had  been  gone  since 
March  to  see  Nancy  at  Madison,  and  nobody  ever 
came  to  the  hut  whom  Poll  was  willing  to  see  now  :  so 
she  kept  by  herself,  and  waited  with  sad  patience  for 
Sam's  coming,  that  she  might  tell  him  what  she 
expected,  and  have  it  over  with. 

But  one  rarely  does  just  what  they  mean  to  do  be 
forehand  ;  and  ' '  The  Flying  Cloud  ' '  was  safe  in  New 
York,  without  Poll's  hearing  of  her  arrival,  for  two 
days ;  and  Poll  herself,  sitting  in  her  low  chair,  read 
ing,  was  "taken  all  aback,"  as  her  father  said,  one 
bright  June  morning,  by  the  heavy  "thud"  of  a  box 
set  down  on  the  sill  of  the  door,  and  the  quick  jump  of 
a  man  over  it. 

"Why,  Poll!"  said  Sam,  after  the  first  unresisted 


POLL   JENNINGS'S   HAIR.  317 

kissing  was  over,  holding  her  off  to  look  at  her,  ' '  I 
shouldn't  ha'  known  you  !  " 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  said  Poll,  with  quivering  lips. 
"My  hair  is  all  gone,  and  —  and  Sam,  I  look  so  —  I 
know"- 

"Look  so!"  interrupted  Sam:  "I  guess  you  do! 
Why,  you've  ben  and  got  made  over !  " 

"O  Sam,  don't!"  said  she.  Somehow  it  was 
harder  to  bear  than  she  had  expected ;  and  the  tears 
would  come  as  she  went  on,  "I  know  I  am  as  humly 
as  a  crab  ;  but  I  sha'n't  feel  hard  about  you,  Sam.  I 
know  you  can't  love  me.  I  —  I" —  Here  came  a 
big  sob. 

"  Jethunderatiou !  "  roared  Sam,  getting  up  his  big 
gest  expletive,  —  "you,  humly?  You're  handsomer'n 
a  picture  this  minnit.  Why,  Poll !  " 

"Sam!"  said  she  indignantly,  "don't!  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Sam.  "Hold  hard  a  bit!" 
With  which  little  exhortation  he  put  her  down,  and 
went  to  his  chest.  Out  of  its  capacious  interior  he 
drew  a  great  bundle  done  up  in  folds  of  canvas,  wads 
of  cotton,  and  wrappings  of  Chinese  paper,  which  at 
last  peeled  off  under  his  clumsy  fingers,  and  displayed 
the  prettiest  little  dressing-case  of  black  lacker,  stud 
ded  with  gold  flowers  and  butterflies,  its  four  drawers 
surmounted  by  an  oval  mirror  in  a  frame  of  the  same 
material.  Sam  triumphantly  hoisted  the  whole  of  the 
affair  on  the  top  of  the  bureau,  and,  catching  up  Poll 
in  his  arms,  held  her  up,  and  asked  her  to  look.  Oh, 
what  a  pretty  vision  was  there !  —  a  fair  sweet  face, 
with  a  deep  glow  on  either  cheek,  its  tender,  panting 
mouth  just  parted  over  little  snow-white  teeth,  its 


318  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

great  brown  eyes  moist  and  bright  with  the  tears  they 
had  but  just  shed,  and  a  head  wreathed  with  silky 
ringlets  whose  coils  caught  the  light  with  a  bronze 
lustre  as  lovely  as  rare.  The  blue- check  dress  and 
white  ruffle  identified  her. 

"  Why  !  "  said  Poll  with  a  little  start, 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  a' n't  hansum?  "  triumphant 
ly  asked  Sam. 

"  I  didn't  know  I  looked  like  that"  was  the  naive 
answer. 

"  Don't  you  never  look  in  the  glass?  "  returned  he. 

"I  haven't  since  I  was  sick,  but  once,"  said  Poll, 
dropping  her  head. 

"Here's  a  reef!"  said  Sam,  light  beginning  to 
dawn  on  his  mind.  "Well,  I  am  some  took  aback 
myself.  I  don't  think  a  poor  seafarin'  man  like  me 
had  oughter  ask  sech  a  three-decker  to  marry  him. 
Poll,  I  b'lieve  I  must  haul  down  my  flag :  I  can't 
expect  you  to  keer  for  me  now." 

Poll  turned  round,  and  looked  at  him :  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  sparkle  of  that  deep  gray  eye.  Poll 
dropped  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  She  could  hear  the 
light  laughter  he  had  repressed  now. 

"O  Sam,"  said  she,  nestling  still  closer  to  his 
cheek,  "  I'm  so  glad  !" 

The  black  lacker  dressing-case,  somewhat  worn  and 
tarnished,  stands  now  in  the  "spare  chamber"  of  a 
tiny  gray  house  at  the  foot  of  a  Squamkeag  Light 
house  ;  for  Ben  Gould  was  drowned,  and  Sam  got  his 
situation.  In  the  upper  drawer  of  the  pretty  luxury 
a  mass  of  red  hair,  long  and  wavy,  is  coiled  away,  and 
tied  up  with  an  Indian  ribbon  that  smells  of  sandal- 


POLL   JENNINGS'S    HAIR.  319 

wood  ;  but  Poll  Jennings 's  hair  has  grown  again  down 
to  the  hem  of  her  dress,  and  its  beautiful  coil  is  as 
bright  as  ever,  though  no  longer  red.  Sam  offers  to 
get  a  divorce  now  and  then,  on  account  of  his  "  hum- 
liness  ;  "  but  at  the  last  advices  his  offer  was  not  yet 
accepted  — "  on  account  of  the  children,"  Poll  de 
murely  says. 


FREEDOM     WHEELER'S     CONTROVERSY 
WITH   PROVIDENCE. 

A   STORY   OF   OLD   NEW   ENGLAND. 

I. 

AUNT  HULDY  and  Aunt  Hannah  sat  in  the  kitchen,  — 
Aunt  Huldah  bolt  upright  in  a  straight-backed  wooden 
-chair,  big  silver-bowed  spectacles  astride  her  high  nose, 
sewing  carpet-rags  with  such  energy  that  her  eyes 
snapped,  and  her  brown,  wrinkled  fingers  flew  back  and 
forth  like  the  spokes  of  a  rapid  wheel ;  Aunt  Hannah 
in  a  low,  creaky  old  rocker,  knitting  diligently  but 
placidly,  and  rocking  gently.  You  could  almost  hear 
her  purr,  and  you  wanted  to  stroke  her;  but  Aunt 
Huldah  !  —  an  electric  machine  could  not  be  less  desira 
ble  to  handle  than  she,  or  a  chestnut-burr  pricklier. 

The  back-log  simmered  and  sputtered  ;  the  hickory- 
sticks  in  front  shot  up  bright,  soft  flames  ;  and  through 
the  two  low,  green-paned  windows  the  pallid  sun  of 
February  sent  in  a  pleasant  shining  on  to  the  clean 
kitchen-floor.  Cooking-stoves  were  not  made  then, 
nor  Merrimac  calicoes.  The  two  old  women  had  stuff 
petticoats  and  homespun  short-gowns,  clean  mob-caps 
over  their  decent  gray  hair,  and  big  blue-check  aprons  : 
hair-dye,  wigs,  flowered  chintz,  and  other  fineries  had 
not  reached  the  lonely  farms  of  Dorset  in  those  days. 

320 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      321 

"Spinsters"'  was  not  a  mere  name.  The  big  wool- 
wheel  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  kitchen,  and  a  little 
flax- wheel  by  the  window.  In  summer  both  would  be 
moved  to  the  great  garret,  where  it  was  cool  and  out  of 
the  way. 

"Gurus,  ain't  it?"  said  Aunt  Huldah.  "Freedom 
never  come  home  before,  later'n  nine-o'clock  bell,  and 
he  was  mortal  mighty  then  ;  kep'  his  tongue  between 
his  teeth  same  way  he  did  to  breakfast  this  mornin'. 
There's  suthin'  a-goin'  on,  Hanner,  you  may  depend 
on't." 

"  Mabbe  he  needs  some  wormwood- tea,"  said  Aunt 
Hannah,  who,  like  Miss  Hannah  More,  thought  the  only 
two  evils  in  the  world  were  sin  and  bile,  and  charitably 
preferred  to  lay  things  first  to  the  physical  disorder. 

"I  clu  b'lieve,  Hanner,  you  think  'riginal  sin  is 
notliin'  but  a  bad  stomick." 

"  Ef  'tain't  'riginal  sin,  it's  actual  transgression 
pretty  often,  Huldy,"  returned  the  placid  old  lady  with 
a  gentle  cackle.  The  Assembly's  Catechism  had  been 
ground  into  them  both,  as  any  old-fashioned  New-Eng- 
lander  will  observe,  and  they  quoted  its  forms  of  speech, 
as  Boston  people  do  Emerson's  Essays,  by  "an  auto 
matic  action  of  the  unconscious  nervous  centres." 

The  door  opened,  and  Freedom  walked  in,  scraping 
his  boots  upon  the  husk-mat,  as  a  man  will  who  has 
lived  all  his  days  with  two  old  maids,  but  nevertheless 
spreading  abroad  in  that  clean  kitchen  an  odor  of  the 
barn  that  spoke  of  "chores,"  yet  did  not  disturb  the 
accustomed  nostrils  of  his  aunts.  He  was  a  middle- 
sized,  rather  "stocky"  man,  with  a  round  head  well 
covered  with  tight-curling  short  hair,  that  revenged 
itself  for  being  cut  too  short  to  curl  by  standing  on  end 


322  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

toward  every  point  of  the  compass.  You  could  not 
call  him  a  common-looking-  man  :  something  in  his  keen 
blue  eye,  abrupt  nose,  steady  mouth,  and  square  chin, 
always  made  a  stranger  look  at  him  twice.  Rugged 
sense,  but  more  rugged  obstinacy,  shrewdness,  keen 
perception,  tempered  somewhat  by  a  certain  kindliness 
that  he  himself  felt  to  be  his  weak  spot,  —  all  these 
were  to  be  read  in  Freedom  Wheeler's  well-bronzed 
face,  sturdy  figure,  positive  speech,  and  blunt  manner. 

He  strode  up  to  the  fireplace,  sat  down  in  an  arm 
chair  rudely  shaped  out  of  wood  by  his  own  hands,  and 
plunged,  after  his  fashion,  at  once  into  the  middle  of 
things. 

"Aunt  Huldy  and  Aunt  Hanner,  I'm  a-goin'  to  git 
married."  The  domestic  bombshell  burst  in  silence. 
Aunt  Hannah  dropped  a  stitch,  and  couldn't  see  to  pick 
it  up  for  at  least  a  minute.  Aunt  Huldah's  scissors 
snipped  at  the  rags  with  a  vicious  snap,  as  if  they  were 
responsible  agents,  and  she  would  end  their  proceedings 
then  and  there:  presently  she  said,  "Well,  I  am 
beat ! ' '  To  which  rather  doubtful  utterance  Freedom 
made  no  reply,  and  the  scissors  snipped  harder  yet. 

Aunt  Hannah  recovered  herself  first.  "Well,  I'm 
real  glad  on't,"  purred  she.  It  was  her  part  to  do  the 
few  amenities  of  the  family. 

"  I  dono  whether  I  be  or  not,  till  f  hear  who  'tis," 
dryly  answered  Aunt  Hnldah,  wrho  was  obviously  near 
akin  to  Freedom. 

"  It's  Lowly  Mallory,"  said  the  short-spoken  nephew, 
who  by  this  time  was  whittling  busily  at  a  peg  for  his 
ox-yoke. 

"  Du  tell !  "  said  Aunt  Hannah  in  her  lingering,  de 
liberate  tones,  the  words  running  into  each  other  as 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      323 

she  spoke.  "She's  jest's  clever's  the  day  is  long. 
You've  done  a  good  thing,  Freedom,  's  sure's  you 
live." 

"He  might  ha'  done  wuss :  that's  a  fact."  And 
with  this  approval  Freedom  seemed  satisfied ;  for  he 
brushed  his  chips  into  the  fire,  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  already  upright  hair,  eyed  his  peg  with  the  keen 
aspect  of  a  critic  in  pegs,  and  went  off  to  the  barn. 
He  knew  instinctively  that  his  aunts  must  have  a  chance 
to  talk  the  matter  over. 

"  This  is  the  beateree  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Huldah  as 
the  door  shut  after  him.  "Lowly  Mallory,  of  all 
creturs !  Freedom's  as  masterful  as  though  he  was 
the  Lord  above,  by  natur  ;  and  ef  he  gets  a  leetle  softly 
cretur  like  that,  without  no  more  grit'n  a  November 
chicken,  he'll  ride  right  over  every  thing,  and  she  won't 
darst  to  peep  nor  mutter  a  mite.  Good  land  !  " 

"Well,  well,"  murmured  Aunt  Hannah,  "she  is  a 
kind  o'  feeble  piece,  but  she's  real  clever ;  an'  I  dono 
but  what  it's  as  good  as  he  could  do.  Ef  she  was  like 
to  him,  hard-headed,  'n'  sot  in  her  way,  I  tell  ye, 
Huldy,  the  fur'd  fly  mightily ;  and  it's  putty  bad  to 
have  fight  to  home  when  there's  a  fam'ly  to  fetch  up." 

"  Well,  you  be  forecasting  I  must  say,  Hanner  ;  but 
mabbe  you're  abaout  right.  Besides,  I've  obsarved 
that  folks  will  marry  to  suit  themselves,  not  other  peo 
ple.  An'  mabbe  it's  the  best  way,  seem'  it's  their  own 
loss  or  likin'  more'n  anybody  else's." 

"But,  Huldy,  'pears  as  if  you'd  forgot  one  thing: 
I  expect  we'd  better  be  a-movin'  out  into  the  old  house, 
ef  there's  goin'  to  be  more  folks  here." 

' '  Well,  I  declare  !  I  never  thought  on't.  'Tis  best, 
I  guess.  I  wonder  ef  Freedom's  got  the  idee." 


324  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Idono.  But  that  hadn't  oughter  make  no  differ 
ence.  There  never  was  a  house  big  enough  for  two 
families  ;  an',  ef  we  go  before  we're  obleeged  to,  it's  a 
sight  better'n  stayin'  till  we  be." 

"That's  so,  Hanner :  you  allers  was  a  master-hand 
for  takin'  things  right  end  foremost.  I'll  sort  out  our 
linen  right  off,  'nd  set  by  our  furnitoor  into  the  back- 
chamber.  I  guess  the  old  house' 11  want  a  leetle 
paintin'  an'  scrapin'.  It's  dreadful  lucky  Amasy 
Flint's  folks  moved  to  Noppit  last  week :  seems  as 
though  there  was  a  Providence  about  it." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  Freedom  had  give  'em  a 
sort  o'  hint  to  go,  Huldy." 

"  Well,  you  do  beat  all !     I  presume  likely  he  did." 

And  Aunt  Huldah  picked  up  the  rags  at  her  feet, 
piled  them  into  a  splint  basket,  hung  the  shears  on  a 
steel  chain  by  her  side,  and  lifting  her  tall,  gaunt  figure 
from  the  chair,  betook  herself  up  stairs.  But  Aunt 
Hannah  kept  on  knitting.  She  was  the  thinker,  and 
Huldah  the  doer,  of  the  family.  Now  her  thoughts  ran 
before  her  to  the  coming  change,  and  she  sighed ;  for 
she  knew  her  nephew  thoroughly,  and  she  pitied  the 
gentle,  sweet  nature  that  was  to  come  in  contact  with 
his. 

Dear  Aunt  Hannah !  She  had  never  had  any  ro 
mance  in  her  own  life :  she  did  not  know  any  thing 
about  love,  except  as  the  placid  and  quite  clear-eyed 
affection  she  felt  for  Freedom,  who  was  her  only  near 
relation,  and  she  saw  little  Lowly  Mallory's  future  on 
its  hardest  side.  But  she  could  not  help  it ;  and  her 
nature  was  one  that  never  frets  against  a  difficulty,  any 
more  than  the  green  turf  beats  against  the  rock  to 
whose  edge  it  clings. 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      325 

So  the  slow,  sad  New-England  spring,  with  storm 
and  tempest,  drifting  snows  and  beating  rains,  worked 
its  reluctant  way  into  May.  And  when  the  lilacs 
were  full  of  purple  and  white  plumes,  delicate  as  cut 
coral  sprays,  and  luscious  with  satiating  odor,  and  the 
heavy-headed  daffodils  thrust  golden  locks  upward  from 
the  sward,  Aunt  Huldah  and  Aunt  Hannah  moved 
their  wool-wheel  and  their  flax-wheel,  the  four  stiff- 
backed  chairs,  the  settle  and  big  red  chest,  the  high 
four- post  bedstead,  and  the  two  rush-bottomed  rockers 
that  had  been  Grandsir  Wheeler's,  back  into  the  small 
red  house,  for  which  these  furnishings  had  been  pur 
chased  sixty  years  before,  laid  the  rag-carpet,  that 
Aunt  Huldah  had  sewed  and  dyed  and  woven,  on  the 
"  settin'-room  floor,  and,  with  a  barrel  of  potatoes  and 
a  keg  of  salt  pork,  went  to  housekeeping. 

There  was  some  home-made  linen  belonging  to  them, 
and  a  few  cups  and  dishes,  also  a  feather-bed,  and  a 
pair  of  blankets.  Freedom  kept  them  supplied  with 
what  necessaries  they  wanted,  and,  though  he  was 
called  ''dreadful  near"  in  the  town,  he  was  not  an 
unjust  man.  His  two  aunts  had  taken  him  in  charge, 
an  orphan  at  six,  and  been  faithful  and  kind  to  him 
all  his  days,  and  he  could  do  no  less  than  care  for 
them  now.  Beside,  they  owned  half  the  farm,  and 
though  one  was  fifty-six,  and  the  other  fifty-eight,  there 
was  much  hard  work  left  in  them  yet.  Aunt  Huldah 
was  a  skilful  tailoress,  in  demand  for  miles  about ;  and 
Aunt  Hannah  was  the  best  sick-nurse  in  the  county. 
They  would  not  suffer :  and,  truth  to  tell,  they  rather 
enjoyed  the  independence  of  their  own  house  ;  for  Free 
dom  and  Aunt  Huldah  were  chips  of  the  same  block, 
and  only  Aunt  Hannah's  constant,  quiet  restraint  and 


326  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

peace-making  kept  the  family  tolerably  harmonious. 
And  in  the  farmhouse  a  new  reign  began,  —  the  reign 
of  Queen  Log. 

Lowly  Mallory  was  a  fragile,  slender,  delicate  girl, 
with  sweet  gray  eyes  and  plenty  of  brown  hair ;  pale 
as  a  spring  anemone,  with  just  such  faint  pinkness  in 
her  lips  and  on  her  high  cheek-bones  as  tints  that  pen 
sile,  egg-shaped  bud,  when  its 

"  Small  flower  layeth 
Its  fairy  gein  beneath  some  giant  tree  " 

on  the  first  warm  days  of  May.  She  had  already  the 
line  of  care  that  marks  New-England  women  across  the 
forehead,  like  a  mark  of  Cain,  —  the  signal  of  a  life  in 
which  work  has  murdered  health  and  joy  and  freedom  ; 
for  Lowly  was  the  oldest  of  ten  children,  and  her 
mother  was  bed-ridden.  Lovina  was  eighteen  now, 
and  could  take  her  place  ;  and  Lowly  loved  Freedom 
with  the  reticent,  undemonstrative  affection  of  her  race 
and  laud :  moreover,  she  was  glad  of  change,  of  rest. 
Rest! — much  of  that  awaited  her!  Freedom's  first 
step  after  the  decorous  wedding  and  home-coming  was 
to  buy  ten  cows  —  he  had  two  already  —  and  two  dozen 
new  milk-pans. 

"I  calkerlate  we  can  sell  a  good  lot  of  butter  'n' 
cheese  down  to  Dartford,  Lowly,"  he  said,  on  intro 
ducing  her  to  the  new  dairy  he  had  fitted  up  at  one  end 
of  the  woodshed ;  and,  if  the  gentle  creature's  heart 
sank  within  her  at  the  prospect,  she  did  not  say  so,  and 
Freedom  never  asked  how  she  liked  it.  He  was  "  mas 
terful  ' '  indeed  ;  and  having  picked  out  Lowly  from  all 
the  other  Dorset  girls,  because  she  was  a  still  and  hard 
working  maiden,  and  would  neither  rebel  against  nor 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      327 

criticise  his  edicts,  he  took  it  for  granted  things  would 
go  on  as  he  wished. 

Poor  little  Lowly !  Her  simple,  tender  heart  went 
out  to  her  husband  like  a  vine  feeling  after  a  trellis ; 
and,  even  when  she  found  it  was  only  a  bowlder  that 
chilled  and  repelled  her  slight  ardors  and  timid  ca 
resses,  she  did  still  what  the  vine  does,  — flung  herself 
across  and  along  the  granite  faces  of  the  rock,  and 
turned  her  trembling  blossoms  sunward,  where  life  and 
light  were  free  and  sure. 

Aunt  Huldah  and  Aunt  Hannah  soon  grew  to  be  her 
ministering  angels  ;  and  if  they  differed  from  the  gold- 
haired,  pink-enamelled,  straight-nosed  creations  of  Fra 
Angelico,  and  would  have  figured  ill,  —  in  their  short- 
gowns  and  mob-caps,  —  bowing  before  an  ideal  Ma 
donna,  Lowly  wanted  no  better  tendance  and  providing 
than  they  gave  her,  when  in  due  season  there  appeared 
in  the  farmhouse  a  red  and  roaring  baby,  evidently  pat 
terned  after  his  father,  morally  as  well  as  physically ; 
the  white  down  on  his  raw  pink  head  twisting  into  tight 
kinks,  and  his  stubby  fists  set  in  as  firm  a  grasp  as 
ever  Freedom's  big  brown  paws  were.  Lowly  was  a 
happy  little  woman  :  she  had  loved  children  always,  and 
here  was  one  all  her  own.  Two  weeks  were  dreamed 
away  in  rest  and  rapture  ;  then  Freedom  began  to  bus 
tle  and  fret,  and  growl  about  the  neglected  dairy,  and 
the  rusty  pork,  and  the  hens  that  wanted  care. 

"  Don't  ye  s'pose  she'll  git  'raound  next  week,  Aunt 
Huldy  ?  Things  is  gittin'  dredf  ul  behind-hand  ! ' ' 
Freedom  had  left  the  bedroom-door  open  on  purpose. 
Aunt  Huldah  got  up,  and  shut  it  with  a  slam,  while 
he  went  on:  "Them  hens  had  oughter  be  set,  'n'  I 
never  git  time  to  be  a  half  a  day  prowlin'  araound  after 


328  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

'em  :  they've  stole  their  nests,  I  expect,  the  hull  tribe  ; 
'nd  Hcpsy  don't  make  butter  to  compare  along-side  o' 
Lowly 's  ;  then  there's  that  'ere  pork  a-gittin'  rusty,  'n' 
Aunt  Hanner,  she's  over  to  Mallory's,  nussin'  Loviny, 
so's't  I  can't  call  on  you ;  'n'  it  doos  seem's  though 
two  weeks  was  a  plenty  for  well  folks  to  lie  in  bed." 

Here  Aunt  Iluldah  exploded  :  ' '  Freedom  Wheeler, 
you  hain't  got  a  mite  o'  compassion  into  ye !  Lowly 
ain't  over  'n'  above  powerful,  anyway:  she'll  break 
clear  down  ef  she  ain't  real  keerful ;  mabbe  I  ain't"  — 

The  shutting  of  the  back-door  stopped  her  tirade. 
While  she  hunted  in  a  table-drawer  for  her  thimble, 
Freedom  had  coolly  walked  off :  he  did  not  choose  to 
argue  the  subject.  But  next  day  Lowly  got  up,  and 
was  dressed.  There  were  two  lines  across  the  sad,  low 
forehead  now,  but  she  went  about  her  work  in  silence. 
There  is  a  type  of  feminine  character  that  can  endure 
to  the  edge  of  death,  and  endure  silently,  and  that 
character  was  eminently  hers. 

"Good  little  feller,  so  he  was,  as  ever  was  ;  there, 
there,  there  !  should  be  cuddled  up  good  'n'  warm,  so 
he  should,"  Aunt  Hannah  purred  to  the  small  boy  a 
month  after,  seeing  him  for  the  first  time,  as  she  had 
been  taking  care  of  Lovina  Mallory  through  a  low 
fever,  when  he  was  born. 

"  What  be  ye  a-goin'  to  call  him,  Freedom?  " 

"I  calkerkite  he'll  be  baptized  Shearjashub.  There's 
allus  ben  a  Shearjashub  'nd  a  Freedom  amongst  our 
folks.  I've  heered  Grandsir  Wheeler  tell  on't  more'u 
forty  times,  how  the'  was  them  two  names  away  back 
as  fur  as  there's  gravestones  to  tell  on't  down  to  Litch- 
field  meetin' -house,  'nd  back  o'  that  in  the  old  grave 
yard  to  Har'ford.  I  expect  this  here  feller'll  be  called 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      329 

Shearjashub,  'nd  the  next  one  Freedom :  that's  the 
way  they've  allus  run." 

"For  the  land's  sakes  !  "  sputtered  Aunt  Huldah. 
"  I  was  in  hopes  you  hadn't  got  that  notion  inter  your 
head.  Why  can't  ye  call  the  child  some  kind  o'  pootty 
Scripter  name,  like  David,  or  Samwell,  or  Eber,  'nd 
not  set  him  a-goin'  with  a  kite's  tail  like  that  tied  on  to 
him?  " 

"  I  guess  what's  ben  good  'nough  for  our  folks  time 
out  o'  mind'll  be  good  'nough  for  him,"  stiffly  answered 
Freedom.  And  Aunt  Huldah,  with  inward  rage,  ac 
cepted  the  situation,  and  went  out  to  the  barn  to  help 
Lowly  set  some  refractory  hens,  where  she  found  the 
poor  little  woman,  with  suspiciously  red  eyes,  counting 
eggs  on  a  corner  of  the  hay-mow. 

"  Manner's  come,  Lowly,"  said  she,  "so  she's  got 
baby,  'nd  I  come  out  to  give  ye  a  lift  about  them  hens. 
I've  ben  a-dealin'  with  Freedom  about  that  there 
child's  name  ;  but  you  might  jest  as  well  talk  to  White 
Rock  :  I  will  say  for't  he's  the  sottest  man  I  ever  see. 
I  b'lieve  he'd  set  to  to  fight  his  own  way  out  with  the 
Lord  above,  if  he  lied  to." 

Lowly  gave  a  little  plaintive  smile,  but,  after  the 
manner  of  her  sex,  took  her  husband's  part.  "  Well, 
you  see,  Aunt  Huldy,  it's  kind  o'  nateral  he  should 
want  to  f oiler  his  f oiks' s  ways.  I  don't  say  but  what 
I  did  want  to  call  baby  Eddard,  for  my  little  brother 
that  died.  I  set  great  store  by  Eddy," — here  Low 
ly 's  checked  apron  wiped  a  certain  mist  from  her 
patient  eyes,  —  "and  'twould  ha'  been  my  mind  to 
call  him  for  Eddy  ;  but  Freedom  don't  feel  to,  and  you 
know  Scripter  says  wives  must  be  subject  to  husbands." 

"  Hm !  "  sniffed  Aunt  Huldah,  who  was  lost  to  the 


330  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

strong-minded  party  of  her  sex  by  being  born  before 
its  creation,  —  "  Scripter  has  a  good  deal  to  answer 
f or !  "  with  which  enigmatical  and  shocking  remark, 
she  turned,  and  pounced  upon  the  nearest  hen.  Poor 
old  hen !  She  evidently  represented  a  suffering  and 
abject  sex  to  Aunt  Huldah,  and  exasperated  her  ac 
cordingly.  Do  I  not  know  ?  Have  not  I,  weakly  and 
meekly  protesting  against  their  ways  and  works,  also 
been  hustled  and  bustled  by  the  Rights  Women  ?  — 
even  as  this  squawking,  crawking,  yellow  biddy  was 
fluffed  and  cuffed  and  shaken  up  by  Aunt  Huldah,  and 
plunged  at  last,  in  spite  of  nips  and  pecks  and  screaks, 
into  the  depths  of  a  barrel,  the  head  wedged  on  above 
her,  and  the  unwilling  matron  condemmed  to  solitary 
confinement,  with  hard  labor,  on  thirteen  eggs  ! 

So  Freedom  had  his  way,  of  course ;  and  Lowly 
went  on,  with  the  addition  of  a  big  naughty  baby  to 
take  care  of,  waking  before  light  to  get  her  "  chores  " 
out  of  the  way,  prepare  breakfast,  skim  cream,  strain 
new  milk  and  set  it,  scald  pans,  churn,  work  and  put 
down  butter,  feed  pigs  and  hens,  bake,  wash,  iron, 
scrub,  mend,  make,  nurse  baby,  fetch  wood  from  the 
shed,  and  water  from  the  well,  —  a  delicate,  bending, 
youthful  figure,  with  hands  already  knotted,  and  shoul 
ders  bowed  by  hard  work  ;  her  sole  variety  of  a  week 
day  being  when  one  kind  of  pie  gave  place  to  another, 
or  when  the  long  winter  evenings,  with  dim  light  of 
tallow  candles,  made  her  spinning  shorter,  and  her 
sewing  longer. 

For  Sundays  were  scarce  a  rest :  breakfast  was  as 
early,  milk  as  abundant,  on  that  day  as  on  any  other ; 
and  then  there  was  a  five-mile  ride  to  meeting,  for 
which  ample  lunch  must  be  prepared,  since  they 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      331 

staid  at  noon ;  there  was  baby  to  dress,  and  her  own 
Sunday  clothes  to  put  on,  in  which  stiff  and  unaccus 
tomed  finery  she  sat  four  mortal  hours,  with  but  the 
brief  interval  of  nooning,  on  a  hard  and  comfortless 
seat,  and  then  home  again  to  get  the  real  dinner  of 
the  day,  to  feed  her  pigs  and  hens,  to  get  the  clamor 
ous  baby  quiet :  this  was  hardly  rest.  And  summer 
—  that  brings  to  overstrained  nerves  and  exhausted 
muscles  the  healing  of  sun,  sweet  winds,  fresh  air, 
and  the  literal  ' '  balm  of  a  thousand  flowers  ' '  —  only 
heralded  to  her  the  advent  of  six  strong  hungry  men 
at  haying,  shearing,  and  reaping  time,  with  extra 
meals,  increased  washing,  and,  of  course,  double 
fatigue.  Yet  this  is  the  life  that  was  once  the  doom 
of  all  New-England  farmers'  wives  ;  the  life  that  sent 
them  to  early  graves,  to  mad-houses,  to  suicide ;  the 
life  that  is  so  beautiful  in  the  poet's  numbers,  so  terri 
ble  in  its  stony,  bloomless,  oppressive  reality.  It 
would  have  been  hard  to  tell  if  Lowly  was  glad  or 
sorry,  when,  on  a  soft  day  in  June,  Aunt  Hannah, 
this  time  at  home,  was  hurriedly  called  from  the  red 
house  to  officiate  as  doctor  and  nurse  both  at  the  arriv 
al  of  another  baby.  This  time,  Freedom  growled  and 
scowled  by  himself  in  the  kitchen,  instead  of  conde 
scending  to  look  at  and  approve  the  child ;  for  it  was 
a  girl. 

Aunt  Hannah  chuckled  in  her  sleeve.  Freedom  had 
intimated  quite  frankly  that  this  child  was  to  be 
called  after  himself,  nothing  doubting  but  that  another 
boy  was  at  hand  ;  and  great  was  his  silent  rage  at  the 
disappointment. 

"  Imperdent,  ain't  it?"  queried  Aunt  Huldah,  who 
sat  by  the  kitchen-fire  stirring  a  mess  of  Indian-meal 


332  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

porridge.  "  To  think  it  darst  to  be  a  girl  when  ye  was 
so  sot  on  its  turnin'  out  a  boy  !  Seems  as  though  Provi 
dence  got  the  upper  hand  on  ye,  Freedom,  arter  all !  " 

But  Freedom  never  gave  retort  to  Aunt  Huldah.  He 
had  been  brought  up  in  certain  superstitions,  quite 
obsolete  now,  about  respecting  his  elders  ;  and,  though 
the  spirit  was  wanting  sometimes,  the  letter  of  the  law 
had  observance.  He  could  rage  at  Aunt  Huldah  pri 
vately,  but  before  her  he  held  his  tongue.  It  was  his 
wife  who  suffered  as  the  sinner  should  for  disturbing 
his  plans  in  this  manner.  He  snubbed  her,  he  despised 
the  baby,  and  forthwith  bought  two  more  cows,  with 
the  grim  remark,  "  Ef  I've  got  to  fetch  up  a  pack  o' 
girls,  I  guess  I'd  better  scratch  around  'n'  make  a 
leetle  more  money." 

But,  if  the  new  baby  was  an  eyesore  to  Freedom, 
she  was  a  delight  to  Lowly.  All  the  more  because 
her  father  ignored  and  seemed  to  dislike  her,  the  afflu 
ent  mother-heart  flowed  out  upon  her.  She  was  a  coo 
ing,  clinging,  lovely  little  creature ;  and  when,  worn 
out  with  her  day's  work,  Lowly  had  at  last  coaxed  her 
cross,  teething  boy  to  sleep,  and  she  sat  down  in  the 
old  creaky  rocker  to  nurse  and  tend  her  baby,  the 
purest  joy  that  earth  knows  stole  over  her  like 
the  tranquil  breath  of  heaven.  The  touch  of  tiny  fin 
gers  on  her  breast ;  the  warm  shining  head  against  her 
heart ;  the  vague  baby-smile  and  wandering  eyes  that 
neither  the  wistfulness  of  doubt,  the  darkness  of  grief, 
nor  the  fire  of  passion,  clouded  as  yet ;  the  inarticulate 
murmurs  of  satisfaction  ;  the  pressure  of  the  little  help 
less  form  upon  her  lap  ;  the  silent,  ardent  tenderness 
that  awoke  and  burned  in  her  own  heart  for  this  pre 
cious  creature,  —  all  made  for  the  weary  woman  a  daily 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      333 

oasis  of  peace  and  beauty  that  perhaps  saved  her 
brain  from  that  common  insanity  we  call  nervousness, 
and  her  body  from  utter  exhaustion ;  for  happiness  is 
a  medicine  of  God's  own  sending :  no  quack  has  ever 
pretended  to  dispense  its  potent  and  beneficent  cordial ; 
and  the  true,  honest  physician,  he  whose  very  profes 
sion  is  the  nearest  approach  to  that  of  the  Saviour  and 
Healer  of  men,  knows  well  that  one  drop  of  the  only 
elixir  he  cannot  bring  outweighs  all  he  can.  Shearja- 
shub  grew  up  to  the  height  of  three  years,  and  the  baby 
toddled  about,  and  chattered  like  a  merry  chipping- 
bird,  when,  one  Fast  Day  morning,  Lowly  staid  at 
home  from  meeting  with  a  sinking  heart,  and  Aunt 
Hannah  was  sent  for  again.  Freedom  went  off  to 
hear  the  usual  sermon,  on  a  pretence  of  taking  Shear- 
jashub  out  of  the  way  ;  he  being  irrepressible  except  by 
his  father,  whom  alone  he  feared.  Mother  and  aunts 
the  youngster  manfully  defied  and  scorned ;  but  the 
very  sound  of  his  father's  steps  reduced  him  to  silence. 
Shingles  were  not  out  of  fashion  then  as  a  means  of 
discipline ;  and  the  hot  tingle  of  the  application  dwelt 
vividly  in  the  boy's  mind  ever  since  he  had  been 
"tuned  mightily,"  as  his  father  phrased  it,  for  dis 
obedience  and  obstinacy ;  Aunt  Huldah's  comment  at 
the  first  punishment  being,  "Hemlock  all  three  on 
'em,  —  man  an'  boy  an'  shingle :  it's  tough  to  tell 
which '11  beat." 

Little  Love  staid  at  home  with  old  Hepsy,  and  prat 
tled  all  clay  long  in  the  kitchen.  Lowly  could  not 
spare  the  sweet  voice  from  her  hearing,  and  she  had 
need  of  all  its  comfort :  for,  when  Freedom  came  home 
from  Dorset  Centre,  a  great  girl-baby  lay  by  Lowly  in 
the  bed  ;  and  if  its  welcome  from  the  mother  had  been 


334  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

bitter  tears,  whose  traces  still  shone  on  her  wan  face, 
from  the  father  came  far  bitterer  words,  —  curses  in  all 
but  the  wording  ;  for  Freedom  wras  a  "•  professor,"  and 
profanity  was  a  sin.  Mint  and  anise  and  cumin  he 
tithed  scrupulously  ;  but  mercy  and  judgment  fled  from 
him,  and  hid  their  shamefaced  heads.  Aunt  Huldah 
and  Aunt  Hannah  made  their  tansy-pudding  that  day, 
after  the  custom  of  their  forefathers,  and  ate  it  with 
unflinching  countenances ;  but  Lowly  fasted  in  her 
secret  soul ;  and  since  her  husband  grimly  remarked, 
ct 'Tain't  nothiu'  to  me  what  ye  call  her:  gals  ain't 
worth  namin'  anyhow ! ' '  the  new  baby  was  baptized 
Marah,  and  behaved  herself  neither  with  the  uproarious 
misconduct  of  Shearjashub,  nor  the  gentle  sweetness  of 
Love,  but,  quite  in  defiance  of  her  name,  was  the  mer 
riest,  maddest  little  grig  that  could  be,  afraid  of  noth 
ing  and  nobody,  but  as  submissive  to  Lovey  as  a  lamb 
could  be,  and  full  of  fight  when  Shearjashub  intruded 
himself  on  her  domains.  For  this  baby  was  a  sturdy, 
rosy  girl  of  three,  before  the  fourth  appeared.  Lowly 
by  this  time  had  fallen  into  a  listless  carelessness 
toward  her  husband,  that  was  simply  the  want  of  all 
spring  in  a  long  down-trodden  heart.  Lovey  alone 
could  stir  her  to  tears  or  smiles.  Marah  tired  and 
tormented  her  with  her  restless  and  overflowing  vitality, 
though  she  loved  her  dearly ;  and  her  boy  was  big 
enough  now  to  cling  a  little  to  "  mother,"  and  reward 
her  for  her  faithful  patience  and  care  :  but  Lovey  was 
the  darling  of  her  secret  heart ;  and,  being  now  five 
years  old,  the  little  maid  waited  on  mother  like  a 
cherub  on  a  saint,  ran  of  errands,  wound  yarn,  and  did 
many  a  slight  task  in  the  kitchen  that  saved  Lowly 's 
bent  and  weary  fingers. 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      335 

It  was  with  an  impotent  rage  beyond  speech  that  Free 
dom  took  the  birth  of  another  daughter,  —  a  frail,  tiny 
creature,  trembling  and  weak  as  a  new-born  lamb  in  a 
snow-drift,  but  for  that  very  reason  rousing  afresh  in 
Lowly's  breast  the  eternal  floods  of  mother-love,  the 
only  love  that  never  fails  among  all  earthly  passions, 
the  only  patience  that  is  never  weary,  the  sole  true  and 
abiding  trust  for  the  helpless  creatures  who  come  into 
life  as  waifs  from  the  great  misty  ocean  to  find  a  shel 
ter  or  a  grave.  Lowly  was  not  only  a  mother  accord 
ing  to  the  flesh,  —  for  there  are^  those  whose  maternity 
goes  no  further,  and  there  are  childless  women  who 
have  the  motherliness  that  could  suffice  for  a  countless 
brood,  —  but  she  had,  too,  the  real  heart :  she  clung  to 
her  weakling  with  a  fervor  and  assertion  that  disgusted 
Freedom,  and  astounded  Aunt  Huldah,  who,  like  the 
old  Scotch  woman,  sniffed  at  the  idea  of  children  in 
heaven:  "No,  no!  a  hantle  o'  weans  there!  an'  me 
that  could  never  abide  bairns  ony where  !  I'll  no  believe 
it." 

"It  doos  beat  all,  Hanner,  to  see  her  take  to  that 
skinny,  miser 'ble  little  crittur !  The  others  was  kind 
o'  likely,  all  on  'em  ;  but  this  is  the  dreadfulest  weakly, 
peeked  thing  I  ever  see.  I  should  think  she'd  be  sick 
on't." 

"I  expect  mothers  —  anyway  them  that's  real 
motherly,  Huldy  —  thinks  the  most  of  them  that  needs 
it  the  most.  I've  seen  women  with  children  quite  a 
spell  now,  bein'  out  nussin'  'round,  an'  I  allers  notice 
that  the  sickly  ones  gets  the  most  lovin'  an'  cuddlin'. 
I  s'pose  it's  the  same  kind  o'  feelin'  the  Lord  hez  for 
sinners;  they  want  him  a  sight  more'n  the  righteous 
do." 


336  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"Why,  Hauner  Wheeler,  what  be  you  a-thinkin' 
of  !  Where's  your  Catechis'  ?  Ain't  all  men  by  nater 
under  the  wrath  an'  cuss  o'  God  'cause  they  be  fallen 
sinners?  And  here  you  be  a-makin'  out  he  likes  'em 
bctter'n  good  folks." 

"Well,  Huldy,  I  warn't  a-thinkin'  of  Catechism:  I 
was  a-thinkin'  about  what  it  sez  in  the  Bible." 

Here  the  new  baby  cried ;  and  Aunt  Huldah,  con 
founded  but  unconvinced,  gave  a  loud  sniff,  and  carried 
off  Shear jashub  and  Marah  to  the  red  house,  where 
their  fights  and  roars  and  general  insubordination  soon 
restored  her  faith  in  the  Catechism. 

Lowly  got  up  very  slowly  from  little  Phoebe's  birth  ; 
and  Freedom  grumbled  loud  and  long  over  the  expense 
of  keeping  Hepsy  a  month  in  the  kitchen.  But  his  wife 
did  not  care  now :  a  dumb  and  sudden  endurance  pos 
sessed  her.  She  prayed  night  and  morning,  with  a  cer 
tain  monomaniac  persistence,  that  she  and  Lovey  and 
the  baby  might  die  ;  but  she  did  her  work  just  as  faith 
fully  and  silently  as  ever,  and  stole  away  at  night  to  lie 
down  on  the  little  cot-bed  in  the  back-chamber  by 
Lovey  and  Marah,  her  hot  cheek  against  the  cool,  soft 
face  of  her  darling,  and  the  little  hand  hid  deep  in  her 
bosom,  for  an  hour  of  rest  and  sad  peace. 

Freedom,  meanwhile,  worked  all  day  on  the  farm, 
and  carried  Shearjaslml),  whose  oppressive  name  had 
lapsed  into  Bub,  into  wood  and  field  with  him  ;  taught 
him  to  drive  the  oxen,  to  hunt  hens'  nests  in  the  barn 
on  the  highest  mow,  to  climb  trees,  in  short  to  risk  his 
neck  however  he  could  ' '  to  make  a  man  of  him  ; ' '  and 
the  boy  learned,  among  other  manly  ways,  a  sublime 
contempt  for  "  gals,"  and  a  use  of  all  the  forcible 
words  permitted  to  masculine  tongues.  But  Shear- 


FREEDOM  WHEPILER'S  CONTROVERSY.      337 

jashub's  sceptre  was  about  to  tremble.  Little  Phoebe 
had  lingered  in  this  world  through  a  year  of  fluttering 
life,  when  another  baby  was  announced  ;  but  this  time  it 
was  a  boy !  —  small  even  to  Phoebe's  first  size,  pallid, 
lifeless  almost,  but  still  a  boy. 

"By  Jinks!"  exclaimed  Freedom,  his  hard  face 
glowing  with  pleasure.  "I  told  ye  so,  Aunt  Huldy ! 
There's  bound  to  be  a  Freedom  Wheeler  in  this  house, 
whether  or  no." 

"  Hm  !  "  said  Aunt  Huldah.  "You  call  to  mind  old 
Hepsy  Tinker,  don't  ye  ? — she  that  was  a-goin'  to  Har'- 
ford  a  Tuesday,  Providence  permittin',  an'  Wednesday 
whether  or  no.  Mabbe  ye'll  live  to  wish  ye  hadn't  fit 
with  the  Lord's  will  the  way  ye  hev." 

"I've  got  a  boy,  anyhow,"  was  the  grim  exultant 
answer.  "  And  he'll  be  Freedom  Wheeler  afore  night ; 
for  I'm  a-goin'  to  fetch  the  parson  right  off." 

Strenuously  did  Parson  Pitcher  object  to  private 
baptism :  but  he  was  an  old  man  now ;  and  Freedom 
threatened  that  he  would  go  to  Hartford  and  fetch  the 
Episcopal  minister,  if  Parson  Pitcher  refused,  and  the 
old  doctor  knew  he  was  quite  sure  to  keep  to  his  word  : 
so,  with  a  groan  at  the  stiff-necked  brother,  he  got  out 
his  cloak  and  hat,  and  rode  home  with  victorious  Free 
dom'  to  the  farmhouse.  Here  the  punch-bowl  was 
made  ready  on  a  stand  in  the  parlor,  and  a  fire  kindled 
on  the  hearth,  for  it  was  a  chilly  April  day  ;  and  from 
the  open  door  into  Lowly 's  bedroom  the  wailing  cla}^- 
old  baby  was  brought,  and  given  into  its  father's  arms, 
a  mere  scrid  and  atom  of  humanity,  but  a  boy. 

The  rite  was  over,  the  long  pra}7er  said,  and  Freedom 
strode  into  the  chamber  to  lay  his  namesake  beside  its 
mother ;  but,  as  he  stooped,  the  child  quivered  suddenly 


338 


all  over,  gasped,  opened  its  half -shut  eyes  glazed  with 
a  fatal  film,  and  then  closed  the  pallid,  violet-shadowed 
lids  forever. 

The  next  entry  in  the  family  Bible  was,  — 
"Freedom.     Bora  April  11  ;  died  same  day." 
44  Well,  he  hain't  got  nobody  but  the  Lord  to  querrel 
with  this  bout!"  snapped  Aunt  Huldah.     "He's  had 
his  way,  'nd  now  see  what  come  on't !  " 

Lowly  got  up  again,  after  the  fashion  of  her  kind, 
without  a  murmur.  She  felt  her  baby's  death,  she 
mourned  her  loss,  she  was  sorry  for  Freedom.  She 
had  loved  him  once  dearly ;  and,  if  she  had  known  it, 
Freedom  loved  her  as  much  as  he  could  any  thing  but 
himself  :  but  it  was  not  his  way  to  show  affection,  even 
to  his  boy  ;  as  much  of  it  as  ever  came  to  the  surface 
was  a  rough  caress  offered  now  and  then  to  Lowly,  —  a 
usage  that  had  died  out,  and  died  with  no  mourning  on 
either  side.  But  as  there  is  a  brief  sweet  season  often 
times  in  our  bitter  climate,  that  conies  upon  the  sour 
and  angry  November  weather  like  a  respite  of  execu 
tion,  a  few  soft,  misty,  pensively  sweet  days,  when  the 
sun  is  red  and  warm  in  the  heavens,  the  dead  leaves 
give  out  their  tender  and  melancholy  odor,  and  the 
lingering  birds  twitter  in  the  pine-boughs  as  if  they 
remembered  spring,  so  there  came  to  Lowly  a  late  and 
last  gleam  of  tranquil  pleasure. 

Aunt  Huldah  brought  it  about,  for  her  tongue  never 
failed  her  for  fear.  She  caught  Freedom  by  himself 
one  day,  looking  like  an  ill-used  bull-clog,  all  alone  in 
the  barn,  setting  some  new  rake-teeth. 

"I've  hed  it  on  my  mind  quite  a  spell,  Freedom," 
began  the  valorous  old  woman,  "  to  tell  ye,  that,  ef  ye 
expect  Lowly  is  ever  a-goin'  to  hev  a  rousin'  hearty 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      339 

child  ag'in,  you'll  hev  to  cosset  her  up  some.  She 
ain't  like  our  folks." 

"That's  pretty  trew,  Aunt  Huldy,"  was  the  bitter 
interruption. 

"  She  ain't  a  nether  millstone,  thet's  a  fact,"  an 
swered  Aunt  Huldah  with  vigor;  "nor  she  ain't 
bend  leather,  by  a  good  sight :  she's  one  o'  the  weakly, 
meekly  sort;  'nd  you  can't  make  a  whistle  out  o'  a 
pig's  tail,  I've  heerd  father  say,  'nd  you  no  need  to 
try :  no  more  can  ye  make  a  stubbid,  gritty  cretur  out 
o'  Lowly.  She's  good  as  gold  :  but  she's  one  o'  them 
that  hankers  arter  pleasantness,  an'  lovin',  an'  sich ; 
they're  vittles  an'  drink  to  her,  I  tell  ye.  You  an'  I 
can  live  on  pork  an'  cabbage,  and  sass  each  other  con- 
tinooal,  without  turnin'  a  hair ;  but  Lowly  won't  stan' 
it ;  'nd,  ef  ye  expect  this  next  baby  to  git  along,  I  tell 
ye  it's  got  to  be  easy  goin'  with  her.  You  want  to 
keep  your  fight  with  the  Lord  up,  I  s'pose :  you're  sot 
on  hevin'  another  Freedom  Wheeler?  " 

"I  be,"  was  the  curt  response.  But  though  Aunt 
Huldah  turned  her  back  upon  him  without  further  en 
couragement,  and  marched  through  the  ranks  of  ' '  gar- 
den-sass  "  back  to  the  house,  her  apron  over  her  head, 
and  her  nose  high  in  air,  like  one  who  snuffeth  the  bat 
tle  from  afar,  her  pungent  words  fell  not  to  the  ground. 
Freedom  perceived  the  truth  of  what  she  said,  and  his 
uneasy  conscience  goaded  him  considerably  as  to  past 
opportunities  ;  but  he  was  an  honest  man,  and,  when  he 
saw  a  thing  was  to  be  done,  he  did  it.  Next  day  he 
brought  Lowly  a  new  rocking-chair  from  the  Centre : 
he  modified  his  manners  daily.  He  helped  her  "lift 
the  heavy  milk-pails,  he  kept  her  wood-pile  by  the 
shed-door  well  heaped,  and  was  even  known  to  swing 


340  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

the  great  dinner-pot  off  the  crane,  if  it  was  full  and 
weighty. 

"For  the  land  sakes !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Hannah, 
"what's  a-comin'  to  Freedom?  He  does  act  halfway 
decent,  Huldah." 

Aunt  Huldah  shook  her  cap-ruffle  up  and  down, 
and  looked  sagacious  as  an  ancient  owl.  "That's  me  ! 
I  gin  it  to  him,  I  tell  ye,  Hanner !  Lowly  wants 
cossetin',  'nd  handlin'  tender-like,  or  we'll  be  havin' 
more  dyin'  babies  'round.  I  up  an'  told  him  so 
Wednesday  mornin'  out  in  the  barn,  's  true's  I'm 
alive." 

"I'm  glad  on't !  I'm  real  glad  on't !  "  exclaimed 
Aunt  Hannah.  "You  done  right,  Huldy.  But,  massy 
to  me  !  how  darst  ye?  " 

"Ho!"  sniffed  Aunt  Huldah.  "  Ef  you  think  I'm 
afeard  o'  Freedom,  you're  clean  mistook.  I've  spanked 
him  too  often, 'n'  I  wish  to  goodness  I'd  ha'  spanked 
him  a  heap  more  :  he'd  ha*  ben  a  heap  the  better  for't. 
You  reklect  I  had  the  tunin'  of  him,  Hanner?  You 
was  allus  a-nussin'  mother :  Freedom  come  to  us  jest 
as  she  got  bedrid.  Land !  what  a  besom  he  was ! 
His  folks  never  tuned  him,  nor  never  took  him  to  do, 
a  mite.  I  hed  it  all  to  do,  'nd  my  mind  misgives  me 
now  I  didn't  half  do  it.  'Jest  as  the  twig  is  bent  the 
tree's  inclined,'  ye  know  it  says  in  the  Speller." 

"But,  Huldy,  'tain't  so  easy  bending  a  white-oak 
staddle  ;  'specially  ef  it's  got  a  six-years'  growth." 

"Well,  I  got  the  hang  of  him,  anyhow;  'nd  he'll 
hear  to  me  most  allus,  whether  he  performs  accordin', 
or  not." 

"  Mabbe  it's  too  late,  though,  now,  Huldy." 

"Law,  don't  ye  croak,  Hanner.  The  little  cretur'll 
hev  a  pleasant  spell  anyhow,  for  a  while." 


FEEEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      341 

And  so  she  did.  Lowly 's  ready  heart  responded  to 
sunshine  as  a  rain-drenched  bird  will,  preening  its 
feathers,  shaking  its  weary  wings,  welcoming  the  warm 
gladness  with  faint  chirps  and  tiny  brightening  eyes, 
and  then  —  taking  flight. 

A  long  and  peaceful  winter  passed  away,  and  in  early 
May  another  boy  was  born  :  alas,  it  was  another  waxen, 
delicate  creature.  The  old  parson  was  brought  in 
haste  to  baptize  it.  The  pallid  mother  grew  more  white 
all  through  the  ceremony,  but  nobody  noticed  her. 
She  took  the  child  in  her  arms  with  a  wan  smile,  and 
tried  to  call  it  by  name:  "Free,"  was  all  she  said. 
Her  arms  closed  about  it  with  a  quick  shudder  and 
stringent  grasp  ;  her  lips  parted  wide.  Lowly  and  her 
baby  were  both  "free,"  for  its  last  breath  fluttered 
upward  with  its  mother's ;  and  in  the  family  Bible 
there  was  another  record  :  — 

' '  Lowly  Wheeler.     Died  May  3 . " 

"  Freedom  Wheeler.     Born  May  3,  died  same  day." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Huldah,  as  they  came  back  to 
the  ghastly  quiet  of  the  shut  and  silent  house,  after 
laying  Lowly  and  her  boy  under  the  ragged  turf  of 
Dorset  graveyard,  "I  guess  Freedom'll  give  up  his 
wrastle  with  Providence  now,  sence  the  Lord's  took 
wife,  'ndbaby,  'nd  all." 

"I  don't  feel  sure  of  that,"  answered  Aunt  Han 
nah,  for  once  sarcastic. 

II. 

Aunt  Huldah  and  Aunt  Hannah  took  Love  and 
Pho3be  over  to  the  red  house  to  live  with  them ;  for 
they  found  a  little  note  in  Lowly 's  Bible  requesting 


342  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

them  to  take  charge  of  these  two,  and  their  father  did 
not  object.  Phoebe  was  a  baby  still,  hopelessly  fee 
ble  :  she  could  not  stand  alone,  though  she  was  more 
than  two  years  old ;  and  Love  was  devoted  to  her. 
Bub  and  Marah  could  "fend  for  themselves  ;"  and 
the  old  woman,  who  came  as  usual  in  Lowly 's  frequent 
absences  from  the  kitchen,  had  promised  to  stay  all 
summer.  But,  before  the  summer  was  over,  Phoebe 
faded  away  like  a  tiny  snow-wreath  in  the  sun,  and 
made  a  third  little  grave  at  her  mother's  feet ;  and 
Lovey  grieved  for  her  so  bitterly,  that  Aunt  Hannah 
insisted  she  should  stay  with  them  still,  and  made  her 
father  promise  she  should  be  their  little  girl  always ; 
certain  forebodings  of  their  own  as  to  the  future, 
prompting  them  to  secure  her  a  peaceful  home  while 
they  lived. 

As  for  Freedom,  if  he  mourned  Lowly,  it  was  with 
no  soft  or  sentimental  grief,  but  with  a  certain  resent 
ful  aching  in  his  heart,  and  a  defiant  aspect  of  soul 
toward  the  divine  will  that  had  overset  his  intentions 
and  desires,  —  a  feeling  that  deepened  into  savage 
determination  ;  for  this  man  was  made  of  no  yielding 
stuff.  Obstinacy  stood  him  in  stead  of  patience,  an 
active  instead  of  a  passive  trait ;  and  in  less  than  six 
months  after  Lowly's  death  he  was  "published,"  ac 
cording  to  the  custom  of  those  days ;  the  first  intima 
tion  his  aunts  or  his  children  had  of  the  impending 
crisis  being  this  announcement  from  the  pulpit  by 
Parson  Pitcher,  that  "Freedom  Wheeler  of  this  town, 
and  Melinda  Bassett  of  Hartland,  intend  marriage." 

Aunt  Hulclah  looked  at  Aunt  Hannah  from  under 
her  poke-bonnet  with  the  look  of  an  enraged  hen  ;  her 
cap- frill  trembled  with  indignation  :  and  Lovey  shrank 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      343 

up  closer  to  Aunt  Hannah  than  before  ;  for  she  saw  two 
tears  rise  to  her  kind  old  eyes  as  they  met  Huldah's, 
and  she  loved  Aunt  Hannah  with  all  her  gentle  little 
soul.  As  for  Freedom,  he  sat  bolt  upright,  and  per 
fectly  unmoved. 

"Set  his  face  as  a  flint!"  raged  Aunt  Huldah  as 
soon  as  she  got  out  of  church,  and  went  to  take  her 
"noon-spell"  in  the  graveyard,  where  the  basket  of 
doughnuts,  cheese,  pie,  cake,  and  early  apples,  was 
usually  unpacked  on  the  stone  wall  on  pleasant  Sun 
days,  and  the  aunts  sitting  on  a  tombstone,  and  the 
children  on  the  grass,  ate  their  lunch.  To-day  Lovey 
and  Marah  were  left  on  the  stone  to  eat  their  fill.  Bub 
had  gone  to  the  spring  for  water,  and  Freedom  nobody 
knew  where ;  while  the  aunts  withdrew  to  ' '  talk  it 
over. ' ' 

"  Yis,"  repeated  Aunt  Huldah,  "set  his  face  like  a 
flint.  I  tell  ye  he  hain't  got  no  more  feelin'  than  a 
cherub  on  a  tombstone,  Hanner  !  She  ain't  cold  in  her 
grave  afore  he's  off  to  Hartland,  buyin'  calves.  Calves  ! 
I  guess  likely,  comin'  home  jest  as  plausible  as  a  pass- 
nip  :  '  I  sha'n't  make  no  butter  this  year  :  so  I  bought  a 
lot  o*  calves  to  raise.'  Ho  !  heifer-calves  every  one  on 
'em,  mind  ye.  Ef  we  hadn't  ha'  ben  a  pair  o'  fools,  we 
should  ha'  mistrusted  suthin'.  Ef  that  gal's  Abigail 
Bassett's  darter,  things'll  fly,  I  tell  ye."  And  here 
Aunt  Huldah  blew  a  long  breath  out,  as  if  her  steam 
was  at  high  pressure,  and  could  not  help  opening  a 
valve  for  relief ;  and  wise  Aunt  Hannah  seized  the 
chance  to  speak. 

"Well,  Huldy,  I  declare  I'm  beat  myself;  but  we 
can't  help  it.  I  must  say  I  looked  forrard  to  the  time 
when  he  would  do  it ;  but  I  didn't  reelly  expect  it  jest 


344  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

yet.  We've  got  Lovey  anyway  ;  and,  if  Melindy  ain't 
a  pootty  capable  woman,  she'll  hev  her  hands  full  with 
Bub  and  Marah." 

"Thet's  a  fact,"  returned  Aunt  Huldah,  whose  in 
most  soul  rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  Bub's  contuma- 
ciousness  under  new  rule  ;  for  he  was  not  a  small  boy 
any  more,  and  shingles  were  in  vain,  though  he  still 
made  a  certain  outward  show  of  obedience.  Marah, 
too,  was  well  calculated  to  be  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of 
any  meek  step-mother,  with  her  high  spirits,  untamed 
temper,  and  utter  wilfulness  ;  and  Aunt  Huldah,  whose 
soul  was  sore, — not  because  of  Freedom's  marriage, 
for  she  recognized  its  necessity,  but  because  of  its 
indecent  haste,  which  not  only  seemed  an  insult  to 
gentle  Lowly,  whom  Aunt  Huldah  had  loved  dearty,  but 
a  matter  of  talk  to  all  the  town  where  the  Wheelers  had 
been  respected  for  many  a  long  year,  —  Aunt  Huldah 
rejoiced  in  that  exasperated  soul  of  hers  at  a  prospect 
of  torment  to  the  woman  who  stepped  into  Lowly 's 
place  quite  unconscious  of  any  evil  design  or  desire  on 
the  part  of  her  new  relatives. 

But  it  was  no  meek  step-mother  whom  Freedom 
brought  home  from  a  very  informal  wedding,  in  his 
old  wagon,  some  three  weeks  after.  Melinda  Bassett 
was  quite  capable  of  holding  her  own,  even  with  Aunt 
Iluldah, — a  strapping,  buxom,  rosy-faced  girl,  with 
abundant  rough  dark  hair,  and  a  pair  of  bright,  quick, 
dark  eyes,  an  arm  of  might  in  the  dairy,  and  a  power 
of  work  and  management  that  would  have  furnished 
forth  at  least  five  feeble  pieces  like  Lowly.  Freedom 
soon  found  he  had  inaugurated  Queen  Stork.  Bub 
was  set  to  rights  as  to  his  clothes,  and  "  pitched  into," 
as  he  sulkily  expressed  it,  in  a  way  that  gave  him  a 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      345 

new  and  unwilling  respect  for  the  other  sex ;  and 
Marah  entered  at  once  into  an  alliance,  offensive  and 
defensive,  with  the  new  "  mammy  ;  "  for  Melinda  was 
pleasant  and  cheerful  when  things  went  right,  and  gen 
erally  meant  they  should  go  right.  She  was  fond  of 
children,  too,  when  they  were  "pretty  behaved  ;  "  and 
Marah  was  bright  enough  to  find  out,  with  the  rapid 
perception  of  a  keen-witted  child,  that  it  was  much 
better  for  her  to  be  pretty  behaved  than  otherwise. 

But  Freedom  —  it  was  new  times  to  him  to  have 
his  orders  unheeded,  and  his  ways  derided.  He  had 
been  lord  and  master  in  his  house  a  long  time  ;  but 
here  was  a  capable,  plucky,  courageous,  and  cheery 
creature,  who  made  no  bones  of  turning  him  out  of  her 
dominions  when  he  interfered,  or  ordering  her  own 
ways  without  his  help  at  all. 

' '  Land  of  Goshen  !  ' '  said  Melinda  to  the  wondering 
Aunt  Hannah,  "do  you  s'pose  I'm  goin'  to  hev  a 
man  tewin'  round  in  my  way  all  the  time,  jest  cos  he's 
my  husband?  I  guess  not.  I  know  how  to  'tend  to 
my  business,  and  I  expect  to  'tend  right  up  to  it : 
moreover  I  expect  he'll  tend  to  his'n.  When  I  get 
a-holt  of  his  plough,  or  fodder  his  team,  or  do  his  chop- 
pin',  '11  be  time  enough  for  him  to  tell  me  how  to  work 
butter,  'n'  scald  pans.  I  ain't  nobody's  fool,  I  tell  ye, 
Aunt  Hanner. ' ' 

"I'm  glad  on't,  I'm  dredful  glad  on't !  "  growled 
Aunt  Huldah,  when  she  heard  of  this  manifesto. 

"  That's  the  talk  :  she'll  straighten  him  out,  I'll  bet 
ye  !  Ef  poor  Lowly 'd  had  that  spunk  she  might  ha' 
been  livin'  to-day.  But  I  guess  she's  better  off,"  sud 
denly  wound  up  Aunt  Huldah,  remembering  her  Cate 
chism,  no  doubt,  as  she  walked  off  muttering, 


346  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

their  death  made  perfect  in  holiness,  and  do  imme 
diately  pass  into  glory, "  —  an  assurance  that  has  up 
held  many  a  tried  and  weary  soul  more  conversant 
with  the  language  of  the  Assembly  of  Divines  than 
that  of  their  Lord  and  Head  ;  for  in  those  old  days 
this  formula  of  the  faith  was  ground  into  every  infant 
memory,  though  the  tender  gospel  words  were  com 
paratively  unknown. 

So  the  first  year  of  the  new  reign  passed  on  ;  and  in 
the  next  February  Freedom  was  mastered  by  a  more 
stringent  power  than  Melinda,  for  he  fell  ill  of  old- 
fashioned  typhus-fever,  a  malign  evil  that  lights  down 
here  and  there  in  lonely  New-England  farmhouses, 
utterly  regardless  of  time  or  place  ;  and  in  a  week  this 
strong  man  was  helpless,  muttering  delirious  speech, 
struggling  for  life  with  the  fire  that  filled  his  veins  and 
consumed  his  flesh.  Aunt  Hannah  came  to  his  aid, 
and  the  scarce  neighbors  did  what  they  could  for  him. 
Brother- farmers  snored  away  the  night  in  a  chair  beside 
his  bed,  and  said  that  they  had  "  sot  up  with  Freedom 
AVheeler  last  night,"  —ministrations  worse  than  use 
less,  but  yet  repeated  as  a  sort  of  needful  observance. 
And  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  Aunt  Hannah  was 
called  away  to  the  "up-chamber"  room,  where  Me 
linda  slept  now,  and  a  big  boy  was  introduced  into  the 
Wheeler  family ;  while  Moll  Thunder,  an  old  woman 
skilled  in  "  yarbs,"  as  most  of  her  race  are,  —  for  she 
was  a  half-breed  Indian,  —  was  sent  for  from  Wing- 
ii  'Id,  and  took  command  of  the  fever-patient,  who 
raged  and  raved  at  his  will,  dosed  with  all  manner  of 
teas,  choked  with  lukewarm  porridge,  smothered  in 
blankets,  bled  twice  a  week,  and  kept  as  hot,  as  feeble, 
and  as  dirty,  as  the  old  practice  of  medicine  required, 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      347 

till  disease  became  a  mere  question  of  "the  survival 
of  the  fittest."  Our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers 
are  vaunted  to  this  day  as  a  healthy,  hard-working 
race,  because  the  weakly  share  of  each  generation  was 
neatly  eliminated  according  to  law. 

But,  if  Freedom  was  helpless  and  wandering,  Melinda 
was  not.  A  week  was  all  she  spared  to  the  rites  and 
rights  of  the  occasion  ;  and  when  she  first  appeared  in 
the  kitchen,  defying  and  horrifying  Aunt  Huldah,  there 
ensued  a  brief  and  spicy  conversation  between  the  three 
women  concerning  this  new  baby,  who  lay  sucking  his 
fist  in  the  old  wooden  cradle,  looking  round,  hard,  and 
red  as  a  Baldwin  apple,  and  quite  unconscious  what  a 
firebrand  he  was  about  to  be. 

"It's  real  bad,  ain't  it?"  purred  Aunt  Hannah, 
"to  think  Freedom  shouldn't  know  nothin'  about  the 
baby?  He'd  be  jest  as  tickled  !  " 

"I  don'  know  what  for,"  snapped  Melinda.  "I 
should  think  there  was  young  uns  enough  round  now  to 
suit  him." 

"But  they  wasn't  boys,"  answered  Aunt  Hannah. 
"  Freedom  is  sot  on  havin'  a  boy  to  be  called  for  him. 
There's  allus  ben  a  Freedom  Wheeler  amongst  our 
folks,  as  well  as  a  Shear jashub,  and  I  never  see  him 
more  pestered  by  a  little  thing  than  when  them  two 
babies  died,  both  on  'em  bein'  baptized  Freedom  ;  and 
he's  had  a  real  controversy  with  Providence,  Parson 
Pitcher  sez,  his  mind's  so  sot  on  this  business." 

"Well,  this  little  feller  isn't  a-goin'  to  be  called 
Freedom,  now,  I  tell  ye,"  uttered  Melinda,  with  a  look 
of  positiveness  that  chilled  Aunt  Hannah  to  the  heart. 
"He's  jest  as  much  my  baby's  he  is  his  pa's,  and  a 
good  sight  more,  I  b'lieve.  Sha'n't  I  hev  all  the  trou- 


348  'SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

ble  on  him?  an'  jest  as  quick  as  he's  big  enough  to 
help,  instead  o'  hinder,  won't  he  be  snaked  off  inter  the 
lots  to  work?  I've  seen  men- folks  afore  ;  and  I  tell  ye, 
Aunt  Hanner,  you  give  'em  an  inch,  'n'  they  take  a 
harf  a  yard  certain." 

"Well,  Melindy,"  interfered  Aunt  Huldali,  for 
once  in  her  life  essaying  to  make  peace,  '•'Freedom's 
dreadful  sick  now:  reelly  he's  dangerous."  [This  is 
New-England  vernacular  for  in  danger.]  %t  What  el' 
he  should  up  'n'  die?  AVouldn't  ye  feel  kind  o'  took 
aback  to  think  on't?" 

"  Things  is  right  'n'  wrong  jest  the  same  ef  every 
body  dies :  everybody  doos,  sooner  or  later.  I  don't 
see  what  odds  that  makes,  Aunt  Huldy.  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  make  no  fuss  about  it.  Fust  Sunday  in  March 
is  sacrament  day,  and  childern  is  allers  presented  for 
baptism  then.  I'll  jest  fix  it  right ;  and,  ef  his  pa  gits 
well,  why,  there  'tis,  'nd  he'll  hev  to  git  used  to't ; 
and,  ef  he  don't,  it  ain't  no  matter,  he  won't  never 
know.  I  guess  I've  got  folks  as  well  as  you,  and 
names  too.  There's  old  Grandsir  Bassett :  he  sot  a 
sight  by  me,  'nd  he  was  ninety  years  old  'n'  up'ards 
when  he  died.  Why,  he  fit  the  British  out  to  Ticon- 
clerogy  long  o'  Ethan  Allen  !  He  was  a  dredful  spry 
man,  and  had  a  kind  o'  pootty  name  too,  smart- 
soundin'  ;  and  I'm  a-goin'  to  call  the  boy  for  him. 
Freedom  !  Land  o'  Goshen  !  'tain't  a  half  a  name  any 
how  ;  sounds  like  Fourth  o'  July  oh- rations,  'nd  Hail 
Columby,  'nd  fire-crackers,  'nd  root-beer,  'nd  Yankee 
Doodle  thrown  in !  Now  Grandsir  Bassett' s  name 
was  Tyagustus.  That  sounds  well,  I  tell  ye  !  —  kinder 
mighty  an  pompous,  's  though  it  come  out  o'  them 
columns  o'  long  proper  names  to  the  end  of  the 
Speller." 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      849 

Here  Melinda  got  out  of  breath  ;  and  dismayed  Aunt 
Huldah  followed  Aunt  Hannah,  who  had  stolen  off  to 
Freedom's  room  with  a  certain  instinct  of  protecting 
him,  as  a  hen  who  sees  the  circling  wings  of  a  hawk 
in  the  high  blue  heaven  runs  to  brood  her  chicks. 

Moll  Thunder  was  smoking  a  clay  pipe  up  the  wide 
chimney ;  and  Freedom  lay  on  the  bed  with  half -shut 
eyes,  drawn  and  red  visage,  parched  lips,  and  restless, 
tossing  head,  murmuring  wild  words,  —  here  and  there 
calls  for  Lowly,  a  tender  word  for  Love  (whom  he 
scarce  ever  noticed  in  health),  or  a  ^muttered  profanity 
at  some  balky  horse  or  stupid  ox- team. 

4 '  Kinder  pootty  sick,"  grunted  Moll  Thunder,  nod 
ding  to  the  visitants.  u  Plenty  much  tea-drink  drown 
him  ole  debbil  fever  clear  out  'fore  long.  He,  he,  he  ! 
Moll  knows  :  squaw-vine,  pep'mint,  cohosh,  fever-wort ; 
pootty  good  steep."  And  from  a  pitcher  of  steaming 
herbs,  rank  of  taste  and  evil  of  smell,  she  proceeded 
to  dose  her  patient,  a  heroic  remedy  that  might  have 
killed  or  cured,  but  that  now  Aunt  Hannah  was  no 
more  needed  up  stairs,  and  could  resume  her  place  by 
Freedom.  And  Moll  was  sent  home  to  Wingfield  with 
a  piece  of  pork,  a  bag  of  meal,  and  a  jug  of  cider- 
brandy,  —  a  professional  fee  she  much  preferred  to 
money. 

But  even  Aunt  Hannah  could  not  arrest  the  fever  :  it 
had  its  sixty  days  of  fight  and  fire.  While  yet  it  raged 
in  Freedom's  gaunt  frame  with  unrelenting  fierceness, 
Melinda  carried  out  her  programme,  and  had  her  baby 
baptized  Tyagustus  Bassett.  Parson  Pitcher  came  now 
and  then  to  visit  the  sick  man  ;  but,  even  when  recovery 
had  proceeded  so  far  that  the  reverend  divine  thought 
fit  to  exhort  and  catechise  his  weak  brother  in  reference 


350  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

to  his  religious  experience,  the  old  gentleman  shook  his 
head,  and  took  numerous  pinches  of  snuff  at  the  result. 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  root  of  bitterness,  —  a  root  of 
bitterness  remaining,  Huldy.  His  speritooal  frame  is 
cold  and  hard.  There  is  a  want  of  tenderness,  —  a  want 
of  tenderness." 

i 'He  didn't  never  have  no  great,"  dryly  remarked 
Aunt  Huldah. 

"Grace  has  considerable  of  a  struggle,  no  doubt,  with 
the  nateral  man  ;  it  is  so  with  all  of  us  :  but  after  such 
a  dispensation,  a^  amazing  dispensation,  —  brought 
into  the  jaws  of  death,  —  Huldy,  where  death  got 
hold  of  him,  and  destruction  made  him  afraid,  in  the 
words  of  Scripter,  I  should  expect,  I  did  expect,  to 
find  him  in  a  tender  frame.  But  he  seems  to  kick 
against  the  pricks,  —  to  kick  against  the  pricks." 

"  Well,  Parson  Pitcher,  folks  don't  alms  do  jest  as 
ye  calc'late  to  have  'em  here  below ;  and  grace  doos 
have  a  pootty  hard  clinch  on't  with  Freedom,  I'm  free 
to  confess.  He's  dredful  sot,  dredful ;  and  I  don't 
mind  tellin'  ye,  seein'  we're  on  the  subject,  that  he's 
ben  kinder  thwarted  in  suthin'  whilst  he  was  sick,  an' 
he  hain't  but  jest  found  it  out,  and  it  doos  rile  him 
peskily :  he  dono  how  on  airth  to  put  up  with't." 

"Indeed,  indeed!  Well,  Huldy,  the  heart  kuow- 
eth  its  own  bitterness.  I  guess  I  will  pray  with  the 
family  now,  and  set  my  face  homeward  without  deal 
ing  with  Freedom  further  to-day." 

"I  guess  I  would,"  frankly  replied  Aunt  Huldah. 
"A  little  hullsome  lettin'  alone 's  good  for  grown  folks 
as  'tis  for  children ;  and  after  a  spell  he'll  kinder 
simmer  down :  as  Hanner  sez,  when  ye  can't  fix  a 
tiling  your  way,  you've  got  to  swaller  it  some  other 
way  ;  but  it  doos  choke  ye  awful  sometimes." 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      351 

There  is  no  doubt  that  ' '  Tyagustus ' '  did  choke 
Freedom,  when  he  found  that  sonorous  name  tacked 
irremediably  01^  to  the  great  hearty  boy  he  had  hoped 
for  so  long,  b<ft  never  seen  till  it  was  six  weeks'  old, 
and  solemnly  christened  after  Grandsir  Bassett.  A 
crosser  and  a  more  disagreeable  man  than  this  conva 
lescent  never  made  a  house  miserable.  The  aunts  went 
delicately,  in  bitterness  of  soul,  after  Agag's  fashion  ; 
Bub  fled  from  before  the  paternal  countenance,  and 
almost  lived  in  the  barn  ;  Marah  had  been  for  two 
months  tyrannizing  over  Lovey  at  the  Red  House,  as 
happy  and  as  saucy  as  a  bobolink  on  a  fence-post ; 
while  Melinda,  quite  undaunted  by  the  humors  of  her 
lord  and  master,  went  about  her  work  with  her  usual 
zeal  and  energy,  scolding  Bub,  working  the  hired  man 
up  to  his  extremest  capacity,  scrubbing,  chattering, 
and  cheery,  now  and  then  stopping  to  feed  and  hug 
the  great  good-tempered  baby,  or  fetching  some  savory 
mess  to  Freedom,  whose  growls  and  groans  disturbed 
her  no  more  than  the  scrawks  and  croaks  of  the  gos 
siping  old  hens  about  the  doorstep. 

By  June  he  was  about  again,  and  things  had  found 
their  level.  If  this  were  not  a  substantially  true  story, 
I  should  like  to  branch  off  here  from  the  beaten 
track,  and  reform  my  hero,  — make  the  gnarly  oak  into 
a  fluent  and  facile  willow-tree,  and  create  a  millennial 
peace  and  harmony  in  the  old  farmhouse,  just  to  make 
things  pleasant  for  dear  Aunt  Hannah  and  gentle 
little  Lovey :  but  facts  are  stubborn  things  ;  and,  if 
circumstances  and  the  grace  of  God  modify  character, 
they  do  not  change  it.  Peter  and  Paul  were  Paul  and 
Peter  still,  though  the  end  and  aim  of  life  were  changed 
for  them  after  conversion. 


352  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

So  Freedom  Wheeler  returned  to  his  active  life 
unchastened,  indeed  rather  exasperated,  by  his  illness. 
The  nervous  irritation  and  general  unhinging  of  mind 
and  body  that  follow  a  severe  fever,  added,  of  course, 
to  his  disgust  and  rebellion  against  the  state  of  things 
about  him.  His  heart's  desire  had  been  refused  him 
over  and  over ;  but  it  grew  up  again  like  a  pruned 
shrub,  the  stronger  and  sturdier  for  every  close  cut 
ting  ;  and,  grinding  his  teeth  against  fate,  —  he  dared 
not  say  against  God,  —  he  went  his  bitter  way. 

Melinda  never  feared  him,  but  he  was  a  terror  to 
the  children  ;  and,  had  there  been  any  keen  observer  at 
hand,  it  would  have  been  painful  to  see  how  u  father  " 
was  a  dreadful  word,  instead  of  a  synonyme  for  lov 
ing  protection  and  wise  guidance.  Aunt  Hannah  was 
shocked  when  Marah  refused  to  say  the  Lord's  Prayer 
one  night.  "Me  won't!  Me  don't  want  Father  in 
heaven :  fathers  is  awful  cross.  Me  won't  say  it, 
aunty. ' ' 

"  Now,  you  jest  clap  down  'nd  say,  '  Now  I  lay  me' 
quick  as  a  wink  !  ' '  interposed  Aunt  Huldah.  i '  Han- 
ner,  don't  ye  let  that  child  talk  so  to  ye.  I'd  tune 
her,  afore  I  would,  I  tell  ye." 

But,  in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  apartment,  Aunt  Hul 
dah  explained,  "  You  see,  Hanner,  I've  took  the  meas 
ure  of  that  young  un's  foot.  She's  pa  all  over,  —  no 
more  like  Lowly'n  chalk  is  like  cheese.  Ef  you'd 
ha'  battled  it  out  with  her,  she'd  ha'  got  the  better  of 
ye,  'nd  more'n  likely  gone  home  an'  told  the  hull 
story ;  and  then  Freedom  would  nigh  about  ha'  slar- 
tered  her;  'nd  I  don't  want  the  leetle  cretur's  sperit 
broke.  Fact  is,  I  feel  jes'  so  myself.  He  is  so  all- 
fired  ugly,  seems  as  though  I  should  bust  sometimes. 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      353 

Moreover,  'nd  above  all,  't  ain't  never  best  to  let  chil- 
clern  git  the  better  of  ye.  They  don't  never  go  back 
on  their  tracks  ef  they  do.  I  put  in  my  finger  that 
time  so's't  she  shouldn't  querrel  with  you,  'nd  she 
said  t'other  thing  jest  like  a  cosset  lamb :  she  was 
sort  o'  surprised  into't,  ye  see." 

"I  presume  likely,  I  presume  likely,  Huldy.  She's 
a  masterful  piece,  Mara  is.  I'm  afeard  she'll  tasto 
trouble  afore  she  dies.  Sech  as  she  has  to  have  a  lot 
of  discipline  to  fetch  'em  into  the  kingdom." 

"Don't  seem  to  be  no  use  to  Freedom,  'flictious 
don't,  Hanner.  Sometimes,  I  declare  for't,  I  have  my 
doubts  ef  he  ever  got  religion,  anyhow." 

"Why,  Huldy  Wheeler!"  Aunt  Hannah's  eyes 
glowed  with  mild  wrath,  —  " 'nd  he's  ben  a  professor 
nigh  on  to  thirty  year.  How  can  ye  talk  so?  I'm 
clean  overcome." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  There's  some  things  stand 
to  reason,  ef  they  be  speritooal  things  ;  'nd  one  on  'em 
is,  that,  ef  a  man's  born  again,  he's  a  new  cretur. 
You're  paowerful  on  Bible-texts  ;  so  I  won't  sling  no 
Catechism  at  ye  this  time:  but  there's  suthin',  some 
where  'long  in  some  o'  the  'Pistles,  about  '  love,  joy, 
peace,  gentleness,  goodness,  meekness,'  'nd  so  on,  for 
quite  a  spell ;  and,  if  that  cap  fits  Freedom,  why,  I'm 
free  to  say  I  don't  see  it." 

"Well,  Huldy,  we  must  make  allowances:  ye  see, 
he's  dreadful  disapp'inted." 

"  That's  so.  You'd  better  believe  he  don't  say  the 
Lord's  Prayer  no  more'n  Marah ;  or,  ef  he  doos,  it 
goes,  '  My  will  be  done  : '  he  hain't  learnt  how  to  spell 
it  t'other  way."  Aunt  Hannah  sighed.  She  was  get 
ting  old  now ;  and  Freedom  was  as  dear  to  her  as  an 


354  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

only  child,  wayward  and  wilful  though  it  be,  to  a  loving 
mother ;  but  she  rested  her  heart  on  its  lifelong  com 
fort,  —  a  merciful  presence  that  was  her  daily  strength, 
—  and  hoped  for  the  best,  for  some  future  time,  even 
if  she  did  not  live  to  see  it,  when  this  stubborn  heart  of 
her  boy's  should  become  flesh,  and  his  soul  accept  a 
divine  Master,  with  strong  and  submissive  faith. 

Poor  Aunt  Hannah  !  She  had  shed  countless  tears, 
and  uttered  countless  prayers,  to  this  end,  but  as  yet 
in  vain.  Next  year  only  brought  fresh  exasperation 
to  Freedom  in  the  birth  of  a  daughter,  as  cross,  noisy, 
and  disagreeable  as  she  was  unwelcome.  He  flung  out 
of  the  house,  and  went  to  ploughing  the  ten-acre  lot, 
though  the  frost  was  only  out  of  the  surface  :  he  broke 
his  share,  goaded  his  oxen  till  even  those  patient 
beasts  rebelled,  and  at  last  left  the  plough  in  the  fur 
row,  and  took  a  last  year's  colt  out  to  train.  Melinda 
escaped  a  great  deal  through  that  poor  colt ;  for  what 
he  dared  not  pour  on  her  offending  head  in  the  way 
of  reviling,  he  safely  hurled  at  the  wild  creature  he 
found  so  restive  in  harness  ;  and  many  a  kick  and 
blow  taught  the  brute  how  superior  a  being  man  is  — 
particularly  when  he  is  out  of  temper. 

"Keep  that  brat  out  o'  my  sight,  Aunt  Hanner," 
was  his  first  greeting  to  the  child.  "Don't  fetch  it 
'round  here  :  it's  nothin'  but  a  noosance." 

Aunt  Hannah  retreated  in  dismay ;  but  she  dared 
not  tell  Melinda,  whose  passion  for  fine-sounding 
names  was  mightily  gratified  at  the  opportunity  to 
select  a  girl's  appellation.  Before  she  issued  from  her 
sick-room  she  made  up  her  mind  to  call  this  child 
Chimera  Una  Vilda. 

Dear  reader,  give  me  no  credit  for  imagination  here. 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      355 

These  are  actual  names,  registered  on  church  records 
and  tombstones,  with  sundry  others  of  the  like  sort, 
such  as  Secretia,  Luelle,  Lorilla  Allaroila,  Lue,  Plumy, 
Antha,  Loruhama,  Lophelia,  Bethursda,  and  a  host 
more.  But  it  mattered  little  to  Freedom  :  the  child 
might  have  any  name,  or  no  name,  as  far  as  he  cared. 
It  was  a  naughty  baby,  and  rent  the  air  with  cries  of 
temper  in  a  manner  that  was  truly  hereditary. 

' '  I  never  see  such  a  piece  in  all  my  days  ! ' '  sighed 
Aunt  Hannah,  whose  belief  in  total  depravity  became 
an  active  principle  under  this  dispensation.  "I  de 
clare  for't,  Huldy,  you  can  hear  her  scream  way  over 
here." 

"Well,  I  b'lieve  you,  Hanner :  the  winders  is  wide 
open,  and  we  ain't  but  jest  acrost  the  road.  I  guess 
you  could  hear  her  a  good  mile.  An'  she  keeps  it  up 
the  hull  endurin'  time.  Makes  me  think  o'  them  cheru- 
bims  the  Rev'lations  tells  about,  that  continooally  do 
cry  :  only  she  ain't  cryin'  for  praise." 

"I  expect  she'd  cry  for  suthin'  besides  crossness  ef 
she  knew  how  her  pa  feels  about  her.  It's  awful, 
Huldy,  it  is  awful,  to  see  him  look  at  the  child  once  in 
a  while." 

"  She  knows  it  in  her  bones,  I  tell  ye.  Talk  about 
'riginal  sin !  I  guess  she  won't  want  no  sin  more 
'riginal  than  what's  come  down  pootty  straight  from 
him.  She's  jest  another  of  'em,  now  I  tell  ye." 

But  Mclinda  was  equal  to  the  situation,  whether  she 
picked  up  the  last  maple-twig  Marah  brought  in  from 
driving  the  cows,  or  pulled  the  stiff  wooden  busk  from 
her  maternal  bosom,  or  "  ketched  off  her  shoe,"  or 
even  descended  upon  that  chubby  form  with  her  own 
hard  hand,  and  pungently  "  reversed  the  magnetic  cur- 


SOMEBODY  S    NEFGHBORS. 


rents,"  au  they  say  in  Boston.  Those  currents  were 
reversed  so  often,  it  might  have  been  matter  of  doubt 
whieh  way  they  originally  ran  after  a  year  or  two. 
But  the  old  Adam  was  strong ;  and  when  Chimera  — 
no  chimera  to  them,  but  a  dreadful  reality  —  was  sent 
over  to  stay  a  while  at  the  red  house,  the  aunts  were  at 
their  wits'  ends,  and  Lovey  both  tired  and  tormented. 

This  time,  for  Chimera's  visit  to  the  aunts  was 
occasioned  by  the  immediate  prospect  of  another  baby, 
Aunt  Hannah  was  not  able  to  take  care  of  Melindy. 
The  dear  old  woman  was  getting  old :  a  "  shockanum 
palsy,"  as  Aunt  Huldah  called  a  slight  paralytic  stroke, 
had  given  her  warning ;  her  head  shook  perpetually, 
and  her  hands  trembled.  She  could  still  do  a  little 
work  about  the  house  ;  but  her  whole  failing  body  was 
weary  with  the  perpetual  motion,  and  she  knew  life 
was  near  its  end  for  her.  So  they  sent  to  Dorset 
Centre  for  the  village  nurse,  —  a  fat,  good-natured  crea 
ture  ;  and  one  morning,  early,  a  boy  —  a  rosy,  sturdy, 
big  boy  —  appeared  on  the  stage. 

Now  Freedom  exulted  :  he  strode  over  to  the  red 
house  to  tell  the  news.  "Fact,  Aunt  Hannah!  I've 
got  him  now,  —  a  real  stunner  too.  You  won't  see  no 
tricks  played  now,  I  tell  ye  !  By  jingo  !  I'm  goin'  off 
for  Parson  Pitcher  quicker'n  lightnin'.  I'll  bet  ye 
Melindy  won't  git  ahead  o'  me  this  time.  That  leetle 
feller'll  be  Freedom  Wheeler  in  two  hours'  time,  sure's 
ye  live." 

"  Providence  permitting,"  put  in  Aunt  Hannah 
softly,  as  if  to  avert  the  omen  of  this  loud  and  pre 
sumptuous  rejoicing.  But,  soft  as  the  prayer  was, 
Freedom  heard  it,  and,  as  he  opened  the  door,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  answered,  "Whether  or  no,  this 
time." 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      357 

Aunt  Hannah  lay  back  in  her  chair,  utterly  shocked. 
This  was  rank  blasphemy  in  her  ears :  she  did  not 
remember  the  illustrative  story  Aunt  Hulclah  told  Free 
dom,  on  a  time  long  past,  about  a  certain  old  woman's 
intention  to  go  to  Hartford,  or  she  might,  perhaps,  have 
been  less  horrified.  Still  it  was  bad  enough ;  for,  if 
the  words  were  lightly  spoken,  the  spirit  within  the  man 
accorded  fully  with  his  tone,  and  never  was  keener 
triumph  rampant  in  any  conqueror's  heart  than  in  this 
rough,  self-willed  farmer's  as  he  drove  his  horse,  full 
tilt,  down  the  long  hills,  and  up  the  sharp  ascents,  that 
lay  between  him  and  the  parsonage.  But  Parson 
Pitcher  had  been  called  up  higher  than  Freedom 
Wheeler's.  That  very  morning  he  had  fallen  asleep  in 
his  bed,  weak  and  wasted  with  a  long  influenza ;  and, 
being  almost  ninety  years  old,  the  sleep  of  weakness 
had  slipped  quietly  into  the  deeper  calm  of  death. 

He  had  for  a  year  past  been  obliged  to  have  a  col 
league  :  so  Freedom  hunted  the  young  man  up  at  his 
boarding-place,  and  took  him  instead,  —  a  little  ag 
grieved,  indeed,  for  long  custom  made  Parson  Pitcher 
seem  the  only  valid  authority  for  religious  observances 
of  this  kind ;  and,  years  after  he  ceased  to  preach,  the 
little  children  were  always  brought  to  him  for  baptism. 

"  But  I  s'pose  one  on  'em's  reelly  as  good  as  t'other 
for  this  puppus,"  hilariously  remarked  Freedom  to  the 
old  lady  who  lodged  the  colleague,  receiving  a  grim 
stare  of  disapproval  for  his  answer,  as  he  deserved. 
However,  there  was  one  advantage  in  having  Mr. 
Brooks  instead  of  the  parson.  Freedom  was  but 
slightly  acquainted  with  the  new-comer :  so  he  poured 
out  all  his  troubles,  his  losses,  and  his  present  rejoicing, 
all  the  way  home,  with  a  frankness  and  fluency  strange 


358  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

enough ;  for  New-Englanders  as  a  race  are  reticent, 
both  of  their  affairs  and  their  feelings,  and  Freedom 
Wheeler  was  more  so  by  nature  than  by  race.  This 
exultation  seemed  to  have  fused  his  whole  character 
for  the  time  into  glowing,  outpouring  fervor :  a  deep 
and  ardent  excitement  fired  his  eye,  and  loosed  his 
tongue  ;  and  Mr.  Brooks,  who  had  a  tinge  of  the  meta 
physical  and  inquisitive  about  him,  was  mightily  inter 
ested  in  the  man ;  and  being,  as  he  phrased  it,  a 
44  student  of  character,"  —which  is,  being  interpreted, 
an  impertinent  soul  who  makes  puppets  of  his  fellows 
to  see  how  their  wires  work,  and  discover  the  thoughts 
of  their  hearts  for  his  own  theories  and  speculations, 
—  he  gently  drew  out  this  intoxicated  man,  "  drunken, 
but  not  with  wine,"  as  he  was,  with  judicious  sugges 
tions  and  inquiries,  till  he  knew  him  to  the  core  ;  a 
knowledge  of  use  to  neither  party,  and  to  the  young 
clergyman  only  another  apple  off  the  tree  from  which 
Eve  plucked  sin  and  misery,  and  a  sour  one  at  that. 

Once  more  the  old  china  punch-bowl  that  had  been 
a  relic  in  the  Wheeler  family  beyond  their  record,  and 
would  have  crazed  a  china-fancier  with  the  lust  of  the 
eye,  was  filled  from  the  spring,  and  set  on  the  claw- 
footed  round  table  in  the  parlor,  the  door  left  open 
into  Melinda's  room  so  she  could  see  all  the  ceremony, 
the  aunts  and  nurse  assembled  in  solemn  array  (all 
the  children  being  sent  over  to  Lovey's  care  at  the 
red  house)  ;  and  with  due  propriety  the  new  baby, 
squirming  and  kicking  with  great  vigor  in  his  father's 
arms,  was  baptized  Freedom  Wheeler. 

Why  is  it  that  ' '  the  curse  of  a  granted  prayer ' ' 
comes  sometimes  immediately  ?  Why  do  we  pant  and 
thirst,  and  find  the  draught  poisonous  ?  or,  after  long 


FKEEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      359 

exile,  come  home,  only  to  find  home  gone  ?  Alas ! 
these  are  the  conditions  of  humanity,  the  questions  we 
all  ask,  the  thwarting  and  despair  we  all  endure,  and 
also  the  mystery  and  incompleteness  which  tell  us  in 
hourly  admonition  that  this  life  is  a  fragment  and  a 
beginning,  and  that  its  ends  are  not  peace  and  rapture, 
but  discipline  and  education.  Freedom  Wheeler  was 
no  apt  pupil,  but  his  sharpest  lesson  came  to-day. 

Full  of  exultation  over  fate,  Melinda,  and  the  aunts, 
chuckling  to  himself  with  savage  satisfaction  at  the 
conscious  feeling  that  it  was  no  use  for  anybody —  even 
the  indefinite  influence  he  dared  not  call  God  —  to  try 
to  get  the  better  of  him,  he  strode  across  the  room  to 
give  his  boy  back  to  Melinda,  stumbled  over  a  little 
stool  that  intruded  from  below  the  sofa,  fell  full-length 
on  the  floor,  with  the  child  under  him ;  and  when  he 
rose  to  his  feet,  dazed  with  the  jar  of  the  fall,  it  was 
but  just  in  time  to  see  those  baby  eyelids  quiver  once, 
and  close  forever.  The  child  was  dead. 

Melinda  rose  up  in  the  bed  with  a  dreadful  face  : 
shriek  on  shriek  burst  from  her  lips.  The  women 
crowded  about  Freedom,  and  took  the  limp  little  body 
from  his  arms.  He  leaned  against  the  door- way  like  a 
man  in  a  dream.  The  torrents  of  reproach  and  agony 
that  burst  from  Melinda' s  lips  seemed  not  to  enter  his 
ears  :  u  Now,  you've  done  it !  you've  killed  him  !  you 
have  !  you  have  ! ' '  But  why  repeat  the  wild  and  bitter 
words  of  a  mother  bereft  of  her  child  in  the  first  hours 
of  its  fresh,  strong  life  ?  Melinda  was  not  a  cruel  or 
ungenerous  woman  naturally ;  but  now  she  wras  weak 
and  nervous,  and  the  shock  was  too  much  for  her  brain. 

In  this  sudden  stress  Mr.  Brooks  forgot  his  meta 
physics,  and  fell  back  on  the  old  formulas,  which,  after 


360  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

all.  do  seem  to  wear  better  than  metaphysics  in  any  real 
woe  or  want.  He  drew  near  to  Freedom,  and  put  his 
hand  on  the  wretched  man's  shoulder.  "  My  brother," 
said  he  gently,  "this  evil  is  from  the  hand  of  the 
Lord  :  bear  it  like  a  Christian." 

"He  ain't  no  Christian!"  shouted  Melinda,  with 
accents  of  concentrated  bitterness.  "Christians  ain't 
that  sort,  growlin'  and  scoldin',  and  fightin'  with  the 
Lord  that  made  him,  cos  he  couldn't  hev  his  own  way, 
and  uplifted  sky-high  when  he  got  it :  'nd  now  look  to 
where  'tis  !  The  hypocrite's  hope  is  cut  off,  cut  off ! 
Oh,  my  baby,  my  baby,  my  baby!"  Here  she  fell 
into  piteous  wailing  and  fainting  ;  and  Mr.  Brooks  led 
the  passive,  stricken  man  away ;  while  Aunt  Huldah 
despatched  Reuben  Stark  for  the  doctor,  and  Aunt 
Hannah  and  the  nurse  tried  to  calm  and  restore 
Melinda. 

But  it  was  idle  to  try  to  draw  Freedom  from  his 
silent  gloom.  He  would  neither  speak  nor  hear,  ap 
parently  ;  and  Mr.  Brooks,  seeing  Reuben  hitching  the 
horse  to  the  wagon,  took  his  hat  to  leave.  Aunt 
Huldah  followed  him  to  the  door  for  politeness. 

"  Send  for  me  when  you  are  ready  for  the  funeral, 
Miss  Huldah,"  said  he  in  taking  leave.  "  I  feel  deeply 
for  you  all,  especially  for  brother  Wheeler.  The  Lord 
seems  to  have  a  controversy  with  him  indeed." 

"That's  so,"  curtly  replied  Aunt  Huldah;  "an'  I 
don't  see  but  what  he's  kep'  up  his  end  on't  pootty 
well.  But  I  guess  he's  got  to  let  go.  This  makes 
three  on  'em  ;  and  it's  an  old  sayin',  'three  times  an' 
out.'" 

A  suddenly  subdued  smile  curled  the  corners  of  Mr. 
Brooks's  mouth  for  a  second.  Poor  man,  he  had  a 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      361 

keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  was  minister  in  a 
country  parish. 

"Good-day,"  nodded  Aunt  Huldah,  quite  unaware 
that  she  had  said  any  thing  peculiar ;  and  then  she 
returned  to  Freedom.  But  he  had  gone  out  of  the 
kitchen  ;  nor  did  any  one  know  where  he  was,  till  the 
horn  called  to  supper,  when  he  came  in,  swallowed  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  went  speechless  to  bed,  not  even  ask 
ing  about  Melinda,  whom  the  doctor  found  in  the  first 
stage  of  fever,  and  pronounced  "dangerous." 

But  Melinda  was  strong,  and  could  bear  a  great  deal 
yet.  She  was  comparatively  a  young  woman  ;  and, 
after  a  month's  severe  illness,  she  began  to  improve 
daily,  and  in  another  month  was  like  her  old  self  again, 
—  perhaps  a  trifle  less  cheery,  but  still  busy,  vivacious, 
and  unsparing  of  herself  or  others.  But  Freedom  was 
a  changed  man.  The  scornful  and  bitter  words  Melinda 
had  uttered  in  her  frantic  passion  burnt  deep  into  his 
soul,  though  he  gave  no  sign  even  of  hearing  them. 

Kingsley  speaks  of  "the  still,  deep-hearted  North 
ern,  whose  pride  breaks  slowly  and  silently,  but  breaks 
once  for  all ;  who  tells  to  God  what  he  never  will  tell 
to  man,  and,  having  told  it,  is  a  new  creature  from  that 
day  forth  forever ;"  and  something  after  this  fashion 
was  Freedom  Wheeler  shaped.  He  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  strictest  Calvinism,  had  his  "  experience  "  in 
due  form,  and  then  united  with  the  church.  But 
Parson  Pitcher  never  preached  to  anybody  but  uncon 
verted  sinners  :  hell-fire  drove  him  on  to  save  from  the 
consequences  of  sin.  Its  conditions,  people  who  were 
once  converted  must  look  out  for  themselves.  And 
Freedom's  strong  will,  sullen  temper,  and  undisciplined 
character,  grew  up  like  the  thorns  in  the  parable,  and 


362  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

choked  the  struggling  blades  of  grain  that  never 
reached  an  ear.  Melinda's  accusations  were  the  first 
sermon  that  ever  awoke  his  consciousness.  He  had 
always  prided  himself  on  his  honesty,  and  here  he  saw 
that  he  had  been  an  utter  hypocrite. 

With  all  his  faults,  he  had  a  simple  faith  in  the 
truths  of  the  Bible,  and  a  conscientious  respect  for  ordi 
nances  ;  and  now  there  fell  upon  him  a  deep  conviction 
of  heinous  sin,  a  gloom,  a  despair,  that  amounted 
almost  to  insanity.  But  he  asked  no  counsel,  he  im 
plored  no  divine  aid  :  with  the  peculiar  sophistry  of 
religious  melancholy,  he  considered  that  his  prayers 
would  be  an  abomination  to  the  Lord.  So  he  kept 
silence,  poring  more  and  more  over  his  Bible,  appro 
priating  its  dreadful  texts  all  to  himself,  and  turning 
his  eyes  away  from  every  gracious  and  tender  promise, 
as  one  unworthy  to  read  them. 

He  worked  more  faithfully  than  ever,  —  worked  from 
day's  first  dawn  into  the  edge  of  darkness,  as  if  the 
suffering  of  a  worn-out  body  had  a  certain  counter- 
irritation  for  the  tortured  mind.  There  are  many  rods 
of  stone  wall  on  that  old  farm  to-day,  laid  up  of  such 
great  stones,  made  so  wide  and  strong  and  close,  that 
the  passer-by  looks  at  it  with  wonder,  little  knowing 
that  the  dreadful  struggles  of  a  wandering  and  thwarted 
soul  mark  the  layers  of  massive  granite,  and  record  the 
exhaustion  of  flesh  mastered  by  strong  and  strenuous 
spirit. 

When  Melinda  was  herself  again,  it  was  yet  some 
time  before  she  noticed  the  change  in  Freedom.  There 
was  a  certain  simple  selfishness  about  her  that  made 
her  own  grief  hide  every  other,  and  impelled  her  to  try 
with  all  her  might  to  forget  her  trouble,  to  get  rid  of 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      363 

the  sharp  memory  that  irked  her  soul  like  a  rankling 
thorn.  She  hid  all  her  baby-clothes  away  in  the  garret ; 
she  sent  the  cradle  out  to  the  shed-loft,  and  never 
opened  her  lips  about  that  lost  boy,  whose  name  Aunt 
Huldah  had  recorded  in  the  same  record  with  the  two 
who  had  preceded  him,  and  whose  little  body  lay  under 
the  mulleins  and  golden-rods,  beside  the  others,  at  Low 
ly 's  feet. 

But,  as  time  wore  on,  Melinda  began  to  see  that 
some  change  had  passed  over  her  husband.  She  had 
quite  forgotten  her  own  mad  words,  spoken  in  the  first 
delirium  of  her  anguish,  and  followed  by  the  severe 
fever  that  had  almost  swept  away  life  as  well  as  memo 
ry.  No  remorse,  therefore,  softened  her  heart ;  but  it 
was  not  needed.  Though  Melinda  was  an  incisive, 
stirring,  resolute  woman,  with  her  warm  temper  she 
had  also  a  warm  heart :  she  could  not  live  in  the  house 
with  a  dog  or  a  cat  without  feeling  a  certain  kindly 
affection  for  the  creature.  Her  step-children  never 
suffered  at  her  hands,  but  shared  in  all  the  care  she 
gave  her  own,  and  loved  her  as  well  as  shy,  careless 
children  of  a  healthy  sort  love  anybody.  She  loved  her 
husband  truly.  Her  quick,  stormy  words  meant  no  more 
than  the  scolding  of  a  wren :  in  her  heart  she  held 
Freedom  dear  and  honored,  only  he  did  not  know  it. 

But  she  began  now,  in  her  anxiety  about  his  sad  and 
gloomy  ways,  to  soften  her  manner  toward  him  daily. 
She  remembered  the  things  he  liked  to  eat,  and  prepared 
them  for  the  table ;  she  made  him  a  set  of  new  shirts, 
and  set  the  stitches  in  them  with  scrupulous  neatness  ; 
she  kept  the  house  in  trim  and  pleasant  order,  and  sat 
up  at  night  to  mend  his  working-clothes,  so  that  they 
were  always  whole,  —  homely  services  and  demonstra- 


364:  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

tions,  no  doubt,  but  having  as  much  fitness  to  place 
and  person  as  the  scenic  passion  of  a  novel  in  high  life, 
or  a  moral  drama  where  the  repentant  wife  throws  her 
self  into  a  stern  husband's  arms,  and,  with  flying  tresses 
and  flowing  tears,  vows  never  to  vex  or  misunderstand 
his  noble  soul  again. 

Freedom's  conscious  controversy  with  his  Maker  still 
went  on  within  him,  and  raged  between  doubt  and 
despair ;  but  he  was  human,  and  the  gentle  ray  of 
affection  that  stole  from  Melinda's  "  little  candle  "  did 
its  work  in  his  "  naughty  world."  He  felt  a  certain 
comfort  pervading  home  when  he  came  in  at  night  sad 
and  weary  :  the  children's  faces  were  clean,  the  hearth 
washed,  the  fire  bright ;  warmth  and  peace  brooded 
over  the  old  kitchen,  crackled  softly  from  the  back-log, 
purred  in  the  cat,  sang  from  the  kettle-nose  ;  Melinda's 
shining  hair  was  smooth,  her  look  quiet  and  wistful ; 
the  table  was  neatly  spread,  — little  things,  surely  ;  but 
life  is  made  up  of  them,  and  hope  and  happiness  and 
success. 

The  dark  cloud  in  this  man's  soul  began  to  lift  im 
perceptibly  ;  and  he  was  called  out  of  himself  pres 
ently  to  stand  by  Aunt  Hannah's  bed  and  see  her  die. 
A  second  shock  of  paralysis  suddenly  prostrated  her, 
and  she  was  laid  on  the  pillows  speechless  and  sense 
less.  Twenty-four  hours  of  anxiety  and  tears  passed, 
and  then  she  seemed  to  revive :  she  stirred  her  hand, 
her  face  relaxed,  her  eyes  opened  ;  but  the  exhaustion 
was  great,  and  she  was  unable  to  speak.  Conscious 
and  patient,  she  endured  through  a  few  days  more,  and 
then  the  final  message  came.  Another  paralysis,  a 
longer  silence,  and  those  grouped  about  her  bed  in  the 
old  red  house,  thinking  every  moment  to  see  the  shadow 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      365 

of  death  fall  over  those  beloved  features,  beheld  with 
surprise  the  soft  brown  eyes  open,  and  fix  upon  Free 
dom  such  a  look  of  longing,  tender,  piteous  affection 
as  might  have  broken  the  heart  of  a  stone ;  a  long, 
long  gaze,  a  very  passion  of  love,  pity,  and  yearning, 
and  then  those  eyes  turned  heavenward,  grew  glorious 
with  light  and  peace,  and  closed  slowly,  —  closed  for 
ever. 

Freedom  went  out  and  wept  bitterly  :  he  had  denied 
his  Lord  too  ;  and  it  was  a  look  that  smote  him  to  the 
heart,  as  that  divine  glance  did  Peter.  But  no  man 
knew  or  saw  it.  Hidden  in  the  barn,  a  dim  and  fra 
grant  oratory  that  has  seen  more  than  one  struggle  of 
soul  in  the  past  and  unknown  records  of  New  England, 
Freedom  "  gave  up,"  and  gave  up  finally. 

He  was  no  longer  a  young  man,  and  he  was  not  the 
stuff  that  saints  are  made  of ;  but  he  had  a  stern 
honesty,  an  inward  uprightness,  that  held  him  to  his 
new  resolve  like  hooks  of  steel.  If  his  temper  soft 
ened  a  little,  his  obstinacy  yielded  here  and  there,  his 
manner  gave  out  now  and  then  some  scanty  spark  of 
affection  and  consideration,  these  were  the  outward 
signs  of  a  mighty  change  within ;  for  an  old  and 
weather-beaten  tree  does  not  bloom  in  its  spring  resur 
rection  with  the  flowers  and  promise  of  a  young  and 
vigorous  growth  :  it  is  much  if  the  gnarled  boughs  put 
out  their  scanty  share  of  verdure,  if  there  is  a  blossom 
on  a  few  branches,  and  shelter  enough  for  a  small 
bird's  nest  from  sun  or  rain.  Lovey,  grown  by  this 
time  a  tall  and  helpful  girl,  with  her  mother's  delicate 
sweetness  in  face  and  figure,  was  first  perhaps  to  feel 
this  vital  change  in  her  father.  Aunt  Hannah's  death 
was  a  woful  loss  to  her  tender,  clinging  nature  ;  and  she 


366  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

turned  to  him  with  the  instinct  of  a  child,  and  found  a 
shy  and  silent  sympathy  from  him  that  was  strangely 
dear  and  sweet,  and  bound  them  together  as  never  be 
fore.  Aunt  Huldah,  too,  noticed  it.  "Dear  me!" 
said  she  to  herself,  as  she  sat  alone  by  the  fire,  knitting 
red  stockings  for  Chimera,  who  had  begun  to  mend  her 
ways  a  little  under  the  steady  birch-and-shiugle  disci 
pline,  —  u  dear  me,  I'm  real  afraid  Freedom  ain't  long 
for  this  world.  lie  is  kinder  mellerin',  like  a  stone- 
apple  in  June :  it's  onnateral.  I  expect  he's  struck 
with  death,  Hanner,  don't  you?  Oh,  my  land,  what  a 
old  fool  I  be  !  Hanner's  gone,  'nd  here  I  be  a-talkin' 
to  her  jest  as  though" —  Aunt  Huldah  wiped  her 
dimmed  eyes  with  a  red  silk  handkerchief,  and  rubbed 
her  misty  glasses  before  she  went  on,  still  leaving  the 
sentence  unfinished.  "  Mabbe  it's  a  triumph  o'  grace. 
I  s'pose  grace  can  get  the  better  o'  Freedom :  seems 
kinder  doubtful,  I  must  confess  ;  but  I  don't  see  nothin' 
else  that  could  fetch  him,  and  he  is  a-growin'  soft,  sure 
as  ye  live." 

But  Melinda,  less  sensitive  or  perceptive,  perceived 
only  that  her  efforts  had  ' '  kinder  sorter  slicked  him 
down,"  as  she  said. 

It  was  reserved  for  the  birth  of  another  child  to  de 
monstrate  how  Freedom  had  laid  down  his  arms,  and 
gone  over  to  the  king  at  last.  Yes,  two  years  after 
Aunt  Hannah's  death,  another  fine  and  hearty  boy 
entered  the  family,  but  not  this  time  with  such  acclaim 
and  welcome  as  the  last.  Melinda,  weak  and  happy, 
grew  gentler  than  ever  before,  between  present  bliss 
and  future  fear :  and  Freedom,  hiding  his  face  in  his 
hard  brown  hands,  thanked  God  with  shame  and  trem 
bling  for  this  undeserved  mercy ;  and  even  while  he 


FREEDOM  WHEELER'S  CONTROVERSY.      367 

shuddered,  naturally  enough,  at  the  possibilities  the 
past  recalled,  he  could  say  humbly  and  fervently, 
"Thy  will  be  done." 

Nobody  spoke  of  sending  for  the  minister  now,  nor 
was  even  a  name  for  baby  suggested  till  two  months 
after,  when  Melinda  said  to  Freedom  one  night,  when 
the  children  were  all  in  bed,  and  they  sat  alone  by  the 
fire,  waiting  for  the  last  brand  to  fall  in  two  before  it 
could  be  raked  up,  "Next  Sunday  but  one  is  sacra 
ment  Sunday,  Freedom.  It's  good  weather  now : 
hadn't  the  little  feller  better  be  presented  fur  baptism  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so,"  answered  he. 

"  What  do  ye  calkeiiate  to  call  him?"  asked  Me 
linda  shyly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Thet's  for  you  to  say,  Melinda:  I  wish  ye  to  do 
jest  as  ye're  a  mind  to,"  he  said  gently,  with  a  stifled 
sigh. 

"That's  easy  settled  then,"  she  replied,  a  pretty 
smile  about  her  red  lips,  and  laying  her  hand  on  her 
husband's  knee:  "I  don't  want  to  call  him  nothin' 
more  nor  less  than  Freedom." 

He  put  his  hand  on  hers  for  a  moment,  looked  the 
other  way,  and  then  got  up  and  went  out  silently. 

So  one  bright  June  day  baby  was  taken  to  the  meet 
ing-house,  and  received  his  name,  and  was  duly  re 
corded  in  the  family  Bible,  but  with  no  ominous  mono 
syllable  added  to  his  birth-date  ;  and  Aunt  Huldah,  as 
she  went  out  of  church,  said  to  Mr.  Brooks,  by  no 
means  inaudibly,  "I  guess  Freedom's  gin  up  his  con 
troversy  finally.  He  did  keep  up  his  end  on't  quite  a 
spell ;  but  he's  gin  up  for  good  now,  I  expect." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  young  parson,  with  a  smile  of 
mingled  feeling  and  reverence.  "  The  Lord  was  in  the 
still  small  voice." 


MRS.   FLINT'S   MARRIED   EXPERIENCE. 

"WELL,  Mind  well,  I  have  counselled  a  good  deal 
about  it.  I  was  happy  as  the  day  is  long  with  your 
father.  I  don't  say  but  what  I  cleaved  to  this  world 
consider 'ble  more  than  was  good  for  my  growth  in 
grace.  He  was  about  the  best.  But  it  pleased  the 
Lord  to  remove  him,  and  it  was  quite  a  spell  before 
I  could  reelly  submit :  the  nateral  man  rebelled,  now  I 
tell  you !  You  can't  never  tell  what  it  is  to  lose  a 
companion  till  you  exper'ence  it." 

A  faint  color,  vanishing  as  rapidly  as  it  came,  almost 
as  if  ashamed  that  it  bore  witness  to  the  emotion  within 
her,  rose  to  Mind  well  Pratt' s  face  as  her  mother  spoke. 
She  was  a  typical  New-England  woman,  —  pale,  serious, 
with  delicate  features,  grave  dark  eyes,  a  tall,  slight, 
undeveloped  figure,  graceful  from  mere  unconscious 
ness,  awkward  and  angular  otherwise.  You  could 
compare  her  to  nothing  but  some  delicate  and  slender 
tree  of  the  forest  that  waves  its  fragile  but  hardy 
branches  fresh  and  green  in  spring-time,  and  abides 
undaunted  the  worst  blast  of  winter,  rooted  in  the  fis 
sures  of  the  rock,  fed  by  the  bitterest  showers,  the 
melting  snows,  the  furious  hail  that  bends  but  never 
breaks  it ;  perfect  in  its  place,  fitted  utterly  to  its  sur 
roundings.  Her  mother,  the  Widow  Gold,  was  exter 
nally  like  her ;  but  deep  in  Mindwell's  heart  lay  a 

368 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      369 

strength  of  character,  and  acuteness  of  judgment,  the 
elder  woman  did  not  possess,  and  a  reticence  that  for 
bade  her  to  express  sympathy,  even  with  her  mother's 
sorrow,  further  than  by  that  reluctant  blush  ;  for  sym 
pathy  implied  an  expression  of  her  love  for  her  hus 
band,  —  a  hidden  treasure  she  could  not  profane  by 
speech,  which  found  its  only  demonstration  in  deeds, 
and  was  the  chief  spring  of  her  active  and  devoted  life 
as  wife  and  mother. 

Mrs.  Gold  had  been  a  happy  woman,  as  she  said, 
while  her  husband  lived,  and  had  not  yet  ceased  to 
reproach  herself  for  mourning  him  so  bitterly.  The 
religion  of  New  England  at  that  time  was  of  a  stern 
type  :  it  demanded  a  spiritual  asceticism  of  its  follow 
ers,  and  virtually  forbade  them  to  enjoy  the  blessings 
of  this  life  by  keeping  them  in  horrid  and  continual 
dread  of  u  the  pains  of  hell  forever,"  as  their  Catechism 
expresses  it.  It  was  their  purpose  to  work  out  their 
own  salvation  with  fear  and  trembling  under  the  curse 
of  the  law.  The  gospel  was  a  profound  and  awful 
mystery,  to  be  longed  for  afar  off,  no  more  daily  bread 
than  the  show-bread  of  the  Temple. 

They  lived  and  worked,  and  suffered  and  died,  with 
few  exceptions,  in  an  awful  sense  of  flying  time,  brief 
probation,  an  angry  God,  a  certain  hell,  but  a  very 
uncertain  heaven.  No  wonder  that  they  were  austere 
and  hard :  the  wonder  was  that  even  natural  tempera 
ment  and  mental  organization  should  ever  resist  this 
outside  pressure,  and  give  play  to  humor,  or  fancy,  or 
passion  of  any  sort.  Yet  in  this  faithless  faith  lay 
elements  of  wonderful  strength.  The  compelling  force 
of  duty  made  men  nobly  honest,  rigidly  upright,  just, 
as  far  as  their  narrow  views  allowed,  and  true  to  the 


370  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

outward  relations  of  this  life,  however  they  violated 
their  inner  principle  and  meaning.  Speculation,  defal 
cation,  divorce,  were  crimes  they  called  by  other  names 
than  these,  and  abhorred.  Can  we  say  as  much  for 
ourselves?  However  we  may  sneer  at  Puritanism,  it 
had  its  strong  virtues  ;  and  its  outgrowth  was  honesty, 
decency,  and  respect  for  law.  A  share  of  such  virtues 
would  be  worth  much  to  us  now. 

Mrs.  Gold  was  "a  professor,"  and  it  behooved  her 
to  submit  to  the  will  of  God  when  her  husband  died. 
He  had  been  a  strong,  generous,  warm-hearted  man  : 
and,  though  undemonstrative  as  his  race,  his  wife  had 
been  loved  and  cherished  as  the  very  blossom  of  his 
life.  She  was  a  sweet,  fair  girl  when  Ethan  Gold 
married  her,  clinging  and  dependent  by  nature,  though 
education  had  made  her  a  hard  worker  ;  but  her  fragile 
beauty  and  soft  temper  had  attracted  the  strength  and 
fervor  of  the  man,  and  their  short  life  together  had 
been  exceptionally  happy.  Then  fever  struck  him 
down  in  his  full  prime  ;  and  their  only  child,  a  girl  of 
six,  could  but  just  remember  all  her  life  that  she  once 
had  a  father  whose  very  memory  was  sacred.  Fifteen 
years  of  mourning,  at  first  deeply,  then  steadily,  at  last 
habitually,  and  rather  as  a  form  than  a  feeling,  passed 
away. 

Ethan  had  left  his  wife  with  ' '  means  ;  "  so  that  pov 
erty  did  not  vex  her.  And  now  Mindwell  was  a  grown 
woman,  and  married  to  Samuel  Pratt,  a  well-to-do 
young  farmer  of  Colebrook,  a  hearty,  jovial  young 
fellow,  whose  fun  and  animal  spirits  would  bubble  over 
in  spite  of  reproving  eyes  and  tongues,  and  who  came 
into  Mindwell's  restrained  and  reserved  life  like  a  burst 
of  sunshine.  Are  the  wild  blossoms  grateful  to  the 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      371 

sun  that  draws  them  with  powerful  attraction  from  the 

cold  sod, 

"  Where  they  together, 
All  the  cold  weather, 
Keep  house  alone"? 

Perhaps  their  odor  and  color  are  for  him  who  brings 
them  to  light  and  delight  of  life.  Mind  well's  great 
fear  was  that  she  made  an  idol  of  her  husband,  yet 
he  certainly  had  not  an  idea  that  she  did. 

If  the  good  soul  had  stopped  to  analyze  the  relation 
between  them,  his  consciousness  would  have  been 
found,  when  formulated,  to  be,  that  his  wife  bore  with 
him  as  saints  do  with  rather  amusing  sinners  ;  while  he 
worshipped  her  as  even  the  most  humorous  of  sinners 
do  sometimes  secretly  worship  saints.  But  what  the 
wife  did  not  acknowledge,  or  the  husband  perceive, 
became  in  a  few  years  painfully  perceptible  to  the 
mother's  feminine  and  maternal  instinct.  Mindwell 
treated  her  with  all  possible  respect  and  kindness,  but 
she  was  no  longer  her  first  object.  There  is  a  strange 
hunger  in  the  average  female  heart  to  be  the  one  and 
only  love  of  some  other  heart,  which  lies  at  the  root  of 
fearful  tragedies  and  long  agonies  of  unspoken  pain,  — 
a  God-given  instinct,  no  doubt,  to  make  the  monopoly 
of  marriage  dear  and  desirable,  but,  like  all  other  in 
stincts,  fatal  if  it  be  not  fulfilled  or  followed.  Utterly 
wanting  in  men,  who  grasp  the  pluralities  of  passion 
as  well  as  of  office,  this  instinct  niches  itself  deepest  in 
the  gentlest  of  women,  and  was  the  ruling  yet  unrecog 
nized  motive  in  the  Widow  Gold's  character.  If  Mind- 
well  had  not  had  children,  perhaps  her  mother  would 
have  been  more  necessary  to  her,  an'd  more  dear ;  but 
two  babies  had  followed  on  her  marriage  within  three 


372  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

years,  and  her  mother-love  was  a  true  passion.  This 
the  grandmother  perceived  with  a  tender  jealousy  fast 
growing  acute.  She  loved  the  little  girls,  as  grand 
mothers  do,  with  unreasoning  and  lavish  fondness.  If 
there  had  been  a  maiden  aunt  in  the  family,  —  that 
unconsidered  maid-of- all- work,  whose  love  is  felt  to  be 
intrusive,  while  yet  the  demands  on  it  are  insatiable, — 
the  Widow  Gold  would  have  had  at  least  one  sympa 
thetic  breast  to  appeal  to ;  but  as  it  was  she  became 
more  and  more  uneasy  and  unhappy,  and  began  to 
make  herself  wretched  with  all  the  commonplaces  she 
could  think  of,  —  about  her  4 '  room  being  better  than 
her  company,"  "love  runs  down,  not  up,"  and  the 
like, — till  she  was  really  pining,  when  just  at  this 
moment  an  admirer  came  upon  the  scene,  and  made 
known  the  reason  of  his  appearance  in  a  business-like 
way. 

"Deacon  Flint's  in  the  keepin'-room,  mother,  wish 
ful  to  see  you,"  said  Mindwell  one  day,  about  five 
years  after  her  marriage.  Deacon  Flint  was  an  old 
acquaintance,  known  to  Mrs.  Gold  ever  since  she  was 
a  girl  in  Bassett.  When  she  married,  and  moved  to 
Denslow,  the  acquaintance  had  been  partly  dropped, 
though  only  nine  miles  lay  between  them  ;  but  she  had 
then  her  family  cares,  and  Ethan  Gold  and  Amasa 
Flint  were  as  unlikely  to  be  friends  as  a  Newfoundland 
dog  and  a  weasel.  Since  she  had  come  to  Colebrook 
to  live  with  her  daughter,  she  was  a  little  farther  still 
from  her  Bassett  friends,  and  therefore  it  was  a  long 
time  since  she  had  seen  the  deacon.  Meanwhile  he 
had  lost  his  wife,  a  silent  and  sickly  woman,  who  crept 
about  and  worried  through  her  daily  duties  for  years, 
spent  and  fainting  when  the  hist  supper-dish  was 


washed,  and  aching  at  early  dawn  when  she  had  to  get 
up  to  milk.  She  did  not  complain  :  her  duty  lay  there, 
in  her  home,  and  she  did  it  as  long  as  she  could  —  then 
she  died.  This  is  a  common  record  among  our  barren 
hills,  which  count  by  thousands  their  unknown  and 
unsung  martyrs.  It  was  a  year  after  her  death  when 
Deacon  Flint  made  his  first  visit  to  Widow  Gold.  He 
was  tired  of  paying  Aunt  Polly  Morse  seventy-five 
cents  a  week  to  do  housework,  though  she  spun  and 
wove,  and  made  and  mended,  as  faithfully  as  his  wife 
had  done,  confiding  ^only  to  one  trusty  ear  her  opinion 
of  her  employer. 

"He's  a  professor,  ye  know,  Isr'el,  and  I  make  no 
doubt  but  what  he's  a  good  man  ;  but  he  is  dreadful 
near.  Seems  as  if  he  reelly  begrutched  me  my  vittles 
sometimes  ;  and  there  ain't  a  grain  o'  salt  in  that  house 
spilt  without  his  findin'  of  it  out.  Now,  I  don't  calc'late 
to  spill  no  salt,  nor  nothin'  else,  to  waste  it ;  but,  land's 
sakes  !  I  can't  see  like  a  fly,  so's  to  scare  up  every 
mite  of  sugar  that's  left  onto  the  edges  of  the  paper  he 
fetches  it  hum  in.  I  wish  to  gracious  he'd  get  some 
body  else.  I'd  ruther  do  chores  for  Mirandy  Huff 
than  for  the  deacon." 

Old  Israel's  wrinkled  face,  puckered  mouth,  and 
deep-set  eyes,  twitched  with  a  furtive  laugh.  He  was 
the  village  fool,  yet  shrewder  than  any  man  who  stopped 
to  jest  with  him,  and  a  fool  only  in  the  satiric  sense 
of  jester ;  for  though  he  had  nothing  of  his  own  but  a 
tiny  brown  house  and  pig-pen,  and  made  his  living, 
such  as  it  was,  by  doing  odd  jobs,  and  peddling  yeast 
from  the  distilleries  at  Simsbury,  he  was  the  most  inde 
pendent  man  in  Bassett,  being  regardless  of  public 
opinion,  and  not  at  all  afraid  of  Parson  Roberts. 


374  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Polly,"  he  answered,  "  you  stay  by  a 
spell :  the  deacon  won't  want  ye  too  long.  He's  got 
a  sharp  eye,  now  I  tell  ye,  and  he's  forehanded  as  fury. 
Fust. you  know,  Miss  Flint'll  come  home,  and  you'll 
go  home." 

' '  Miss  Flint !  ' '  screamed  Aunt  Polly.  ' '  Why, 
Isr'el  Tucker,  you  give  me  such  a  turn  !  Poor  cretur, 
she's  safe  under  the  mulleins  this  year  back.  I  guess 
I  shall  go  when  she  comes,  but  'twon't  be  till  the  day 
o'  judgment." 

"  Then  the  day  o'  judgment's  .near  by,  Aunt  Polly ; 
and  I  reckon  it  is  for  one  poor  cretur.  But  you  don't 
somehow  seem  to  take  it  in.  I  tell  ye  the  deacon's 
gone  a-courtin'." 

"  Courtin'  !  Isr'el!  you  be  a-foolin' of  me  now, 
certain  sure." 

"Not  a  mite  ou't.  I  see  him  a-'ilin'  up  his  old 
harness  yesterday,  and  a-rubbin'  down  the  mare,  and 
I  mistrusted  he  was  up  to  suthin.  And  Squire  Battle 
he  met  him  a'most  to  Colebrook  this  mornin'  :  I  heerd 
him  say  so.  I  put  this  'n'  that  together,  and  drawed 
my  own  influences ;  and  I  figgered  out  that  he's  gone 
to  Colebrook  to  see  if  Widder  Gold  won't  hev  him.  A 
wife's  a  lot  cheaper  than  hired  help,  and  this  one's  got 
means." 

"For  mercy's  sakes  !  You  don't  suppose  Sarepty 
Gold  would  look  at  him,  do  ye?  " 

"I  never  see  the  woman  yet  that  wouldn't  look  at 
a  man  when  he  axed  her  to,"  was  the  dry  answer. 
But  Aunt  Polly  was  too  stunned  with  her  new  ideas 
to  retort.  She  went  on,  as  if  the  sneer  at  her  sex  had 
not  reached  her  ear,  — 

"Why,   she  ha'n't   no   need   to   marry  him:    she's 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      375 

got  a  good  home  to  Sam  Pratt's.  And  there's  that 
farm  here  that  Hi  Smith  runs  on  shares,  and  money  in 
Har'ford  bank,  they  do  say.  She  won't  have  him: 
don't  ye  tell  me  so." 

"  Women  are  mortal  queer,"  replied  old  Israel. 

"If  they  wa' n't,  there  wouldn't  no  men  get  mar 
ried,"  snapped  Aunt  Polly,  who  was  a  contented  old 
maid,  and  never  suspected  she  was  "  queer  "  herself. 

"That's  so,  Aunt  Polly.  Mabbe  it's  what  Parson 
Roberts  calls  a  dispensation,  and  I  guess  it  is.  I  say 
for't,  a  woman  must  be  extry  queer  to  marry  Amasy 
Flint,  ef  she's  even  got  a  chance  at  Bassett  poor-house." 

Yet  Israel  was  right  in  his  prophecy.  At  that  very 
moment  Deacon  Flint  wa*s  sitting  bolt-upright  in  a 
high-backed  chair  in  Sam  Pratt's  keeping-room,  dis 
coursing  with  the  Widow  Gold. 

Two  people  more  opposite  in  aspect  could  hardly  be 
found.  Mrs.  .Gold  was  not  yet  fifty,  and  retained 
much  of  her  soft  loveliness.  Her  cheek  was  still 
round  and  fair,  her  pale  brown  hair  but  slightly  lined 
with  gray,  and  the  mild  light  of  her  eyes  shone  tenderly 
yet ;  though  her  figure  was  a  little  bent,  and  her  hands 
knotted  with  work. 

She  looked  fair  and  young  in  comparison  with  the 
grizzled,  stern,  hard-favored  man  before  her.  A 
far-off  Scotch  ancestry  had  bequeathed  to  him  the 
high  cheek-bones  and  deep-set  eyes  that  gave  him  so 
severe  an  aspect ;  and  to  these  an  aquiline  nose,  a 
cruel,  pinched  mouth,  a  low  forehead,  and  a  sallow, 
wrinkled  skin,  added  no  charms.  But  the  charm  of 
old  association  brought  him  a  welcome  here.  Bas 
sett  was  the  home  of  Mrs.  Gold's  childhood,  and  she 
had  a  great  many  questions  to  ask.  Her  face  gath- 


376  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBOHS. 

ered  color  and  light  as  she  recalled  old  affections  and 
sympathies  ;  and  the  deacon  took  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  looking  at  her.  But  this  was  a  mere  ripple  above 
his  serious  intention.  He  meant  business,  and  could 
not  waste  time :  so,  as  soon  as  there  came  a  little  lull 
in  Mrs.  Gold's  fluent  reminiscences,  he  curtly  began,  — 

"  I  came  over  to-day  on  an  arrand,  Miss  Gold,  —  I 
may  say  quite  a  ser'ous  arrand.  I  lost  my  companion, 
I  suppose  ye  know ,  a  year  ago  come  September  the 
10th.  She  was  a  good  woman,  Miss  Flint  was,  savin' 
and  reasonable  as  ever  was." 

' '  I  always  heard  her  well  spoke  of, ' '  modestly  re 
joined  the  widow. 

"  Yes,  her  children  praise  her  in  the  gates,  —  or  they 
would  hev,  if  she'd  had  any.  I  feel  her  loss.  And 
Scripter  says,  'It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone.' 
Scripter  is  right.  You  are  a  woman  that's  seen  afflic 
tion  too,  Miss  Gold :  you've  passed  under  the  rod. 
Well,  folks  must  be  resigned :  professors  like  you  and 
me  have  got  to  set  example.  We  can't  fault  the  Lord 
when  he  takes  our  companions  away,  and  say,  '  Why  do 
ye  so?'  as  though  'twas  a  "man  done  it.  We've  got 
this  treasure  in  earthen  vessels.  Well,  to  come  to  the 
p'int,  I  come  over  to-day  to  see  ef  you  wa'n't  willin' 
to  consider  the  subject  of  uniting  yourself  to  me  in  the 
bonds  of  marriage." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  astonished  widow. 

"I  don't  want  to  hurry  ye  none,"  he  went  on: 
"  take  time  on't.  I  should  like  to  get  my  answer  right 
off ;  but  I  can  make  allowance  for  bein'  onexpeetcd. 
I'll  come  agin  next  week  —  say  this  day  week.  I 
hope  you'll  make  it  a  subject  of  prayer,  and  I  expect 
you'll  get  light  on  your  duty  by  that  time.  I've  got 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      377 
^ 

a  good  house  and  a  good  farm,  and  I'll  do  well  by  ye. 
And,  moreover  and  besides,  you  know  Mr.  Pratt's 
folks  are  pressed  some  for  room,  I  expect.  I  guess 
they  won't  stand  in  the  way  of  your  goin'  to  Bassett. 
Good-day,  good-day. ' ' 

And  the  widow  received  a  calm  up-and-down  hand 
shake,  with  which  decorous  caress  the  deacon  —  for 
we  cannot  call  him  the  lover  —  departed,  leaving  Mrs. 
Gold  in  a  state  of  pleased  amazement,  partly  because 
she  was  a  woman  and  a  widow,  partly  because  it  was 
Deacon  Flint  who  had  asked  her  to  marry  him ;  for 
the  deacon  was  a  pillar  in  Bassett  church,  owned  a 
large  farm  and  a  goodly  square  house,  and  was  a 
power  in  the  State,  having  twice  been  sent  to  the  Gen 
eral  Assembly.  She  could  not  but  be  gratified  by  the 
preference,  and  as  she  pondered  on  the  matter  it  grew 
more  feasible.  Her  girl  was  hers  no  longer,  but  a 
wife  and  mother  herself ;  and  she  who  had  been  all  in 
all  to  Mind  well  was  now  little  more  than  ' ;  grandma  ' ' 
in  the  house,  —  a  sort  of  suffered  and  necessary  burden 
on  Samuel's  hands.  But  here  a  home  of  her  own  was 
offered  her,  a  place  of  dignity  among  other  women,  — 
a  place  where  she  could  ask  her  children  to  come  to 
her,  and  give  rather  than  receive. 

There  is  nothing  so  attractive  to  a  woman  who  is  no 
longer  young  as  the  idea  of  a  home.  The  shadow  of 
age  and  its  infirmities  affrights  her ;  loneliness  is  a 
terror  in  the  future  ;  and  the  prospect  of  drifting  about 
here  and  there,  a  dependent,  poor,  proud,  unwelcome, 
when  flesh  and  heart  fail,  and  the  ability  to  labor  is 
gone,  makes  any  permanent  shelter  a  blessed  pros 
pect,  and  draws  many  a  woman  into  a  far  more  dread 
ful  fate  than  the  work-house  mercies  or  the  colder  char 
ity  of  relatives. 


378  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

This  terror  was  strong  in  Mrs  Gold's  feeble  heart. 
She  was  one  of  the  thousands  of  women  who  cannot 
trust  what  they  do  not  see,  and  she  misjudged  her 
daughter  cruelly.  Mindwell  felt  that  to-day,  as  her 
mother  avowed  to  her  Deacon  Flint's  offer  and  her  own 
perplexities.  When  Mrs.  Gold  asserted  that  her 
daughter  could  never  understand  what  it  was  to  lose  a 
husband,  Mindwell  felt  a  sure  but  unspoken  conviction 
that  the  terror  of  such  a  bereavement,  which  con 
fronted  her  whenever  her  heart  leaped  up  to  meet 
Samuel,  was  experience  enough  for  her  to  interpret 
thereby  the  longings  of  a  real  bereavement ;  but  she 
only  colored  faintly,  and  answered,  — 

"  Well,  mother,  I  don't  see  my  way  clear  to  offer  you 
any  advice.  You  must  use  your  own  judgment.  You 
know  Samuel  and  me  think  every  thing  of  having  you 
here  ;  and  the  children  just  begin  to  know  grandma 
by  heart.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  self-seeking :  if 
it's  for  your  best  good,  why,  we  sha'n't  neither  of  us 
say  a  word.  I  don't  skerce  know  how  to  speak  about 
it,  it's  so  strange  like  and  sudden.  I  can't  say  no 
more  than  this  :  if  you're  going  to  be  happier  and  bet 
ter  off  with  Deacon  Flint  than  with  your  own  folks,  we 
haven't  no  right  to  hinder  you,  and  we  won't." 

Mindwell  turned  away  with  trembling  lips,  silent, 
because  strong  emotion  choked  her.  If  she  had  fallen 
on  her  mother's  neck  and  wept,  and  begged  her  to 
stay,  with  repeated  kisses  and  warm  embrace,  Mrs. 
Gold  never  would  have  become  Mrs.  Flint ;  but  she 
could  not  appreciate  Mind  well's  feeling.  She  took  her 
conscientious  self-control  and  candor  for  indifference ; 
and  her  elderly  lover  loomed  through  this  mist  in 
grander  proportions  than  ever.  She  resolved  then  and 
there  that  it  was  her  duty  to  accept  him. 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      379 

Mindwell  had  goiie  down  stairs  to  find  her  husband, 
who  sat  by  the  fire,  fitting  a  rake- tail  more  firmly  into 
a  hay-rake.  He  had  been  caught  in  a  distant  field  by 
a  heavy  shower,  and  was  steaming  now  close  to  the 
fireplace,  where  a  heap  of  chips  was  lighted  to  boil  the 
kettle  for  tea.  Mindwell  stole  up  to  him.  and  laid  one 
hand  on  his  handsome  head.  He  looked  up,  astonished 
at  the  slight  caress,  and  saw  his  wife's  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"What's  the  matter,  darling?"  he  said  in  his 
cheery  voice.  It  was  like  a  kiss  to  her  to  have  him 
say  "  darling,"  for  sweet  words  were  rare  among  their 
class  ;  and  this  was  the  only  one  he  ever  used,  kept 
sacredly,  too,  for  Mindwell. 

"  O  Sam  !  "  she  answered,  with  a  quiver  in  her  deli 
cate  voice,  "don't  you  think,  Deacon  Flint  wants  to 
marry  mother  ! ' ' 

"Thunder  an'  guns!  You  don't  mean  it,  wife? 
Haw,  haw,  haw!  It's  as  good  as  a  general  trainin'. 
Of  all  things  !  What  doos  she  say  to't?  " 

"Well,  I'm  'most  afraid  she  favors  him  a  little. 
He's  given  her  a  week's  time  to  consider  of  it ;  but, 
someway,  I  can't  bear  to  have  it  thought  of." 

"Don't  pester  your  head  about  it,  Miss  Pratt:  you 
can't  make  nor  meddle  in  such  things.  But  I'm  free 
to  own  that  I  never  was  more  beat  in  all  my  days. 
Why,  Amasy  Flint  is  town-talk  for  nearness  an'  mean 
ness.  He  pretends  to  be  as  pious  as  a  basket  o'  chips, 
but  I  hain't  no  vital  faith  in  that  kind  o'  pious.  I 
b'lieve  in  my  soul  lie's  a  darned  old  hypocrite." 

"  O  Sam,  Sain  !  you  hadn't  ought  to  judge  folks." 

"I  suppose  I  hadn't,  reelly ;  but  you  know  what 
Scripter  says  somewhere  or  'nother,  that  some  folks's 


380  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

sins  are  open,  an'  go  to  judgment  beforehand,  and  I 
guess  his'n  do.  I  should  hate  to  have  mother  take  up 
with  him." 

"  What  can  we  do,  Sam?" 

"Nothin',  strenoously.  I  don't  know  what  'tis 
about  women-folks  in  such  matters :  they  won't  bear 
no  more  meddlin'  with  than  a  partridge's  nest ;  you'll 
spile  the  brood  if  you  put  in  a  finger.  I'd  say  jest  as 
much  as  I  could  about  her  bein'  always  welcome  here. 
I'll  do  my  part  of  that  set  piece  o'  music ;  and  that's 
all  we  can  do.  If  she's  set  on  havin'  him,  she  will ; 
and  you  nor  me  can't  stop  it,  Miss  Pratt."  With 
which  sound  advice,  Sam  rose  from  the  milking-stool 
with  his  reconstructed  rake,  took  down  a  coarse  comb 
from  the  clock-case,  run  it  through  his  hair  by  way  of 
toilet,  and  sat  down  to  supper  at  the  table  with  the 
three  other  hay-makers.  Mind  well  and  her  mother 
were  going  out  to  tea,  so  they  did  not  sup  with  the 
men. 

After  they  came  home,  Sam  expressed  himself  in  a 
succinct  but  forcible  manner  to  Mrs.  Gold  on  the  sub 
ject  of  her  marriage,  and  Mindwell  attempted  a  faint 
remonstrance  again  ;  but  her  morbid  fear  of  selfishness 
shut  the  heart-throbs  she  longed  to  express  to  her 
mother  back  into  their  habitual  silence.  She  and  Sam 
both,  trying  to  do  their  best,  actually  helped,  rather 
than  hindered,  this  unpropitious  marriage. 

Mrs.  Gold,  in  her  heart,  longed  to  stay  with  her  chil 
dren,  but  feared  and  disliked  so  heartily  to  be  a  bur 
den  on  their  hands,  that  she  was  unjust  to  herself  and 
them  too.  A  little  less  self -inspection,  and  a  little 
more  simple  honesty  of  speech,  would  have  settled  this 
matter  in  favor  of  Mindwell  and  Colebrook  :  as  it  was, 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MAKRIED  EXPERIENCE.      381 

Deacon  Flint  carried  the  day.  On  the  Friday  follow 
ing  he  arrived  for  his  answer ;  his  gray  hair  tied  in  a 
long  cue,  his  Sunday  coat  of  blue,  and  brass  buttons, 
his  tight  drab  pantaloons,  ruffled  shirt,  and  low  boots, 
all  indicating  a  ceremonial  occasion. 

"Gosh,"  said  old  Israel  Tucker,  jogging  along  in 
his  yeast-cart,  as  he  met  the  gray  mare  in  clean  har 
ness,  whipped  up  by  the  deacon  in  this  fine  raiment,  the 
old  wagon  itself  being  for  once  washed  and  greased,  — 
"  gosh  !  it's  easy  tellin'  what  he's  after.  I  should  think 
them  mulleins  an'  hardbacks  in  the  buryin' -ground 
would  kinder  rustle  round.  I  don't  know,  though ; 
mabbe  Miss  Flint's  realized  by  now  that  she's  better 
off  under  them  beauties  of  natur'  than  she  ever  was  in 
Amasy  Flint's  house.  Good  land  !  what  fools  women 
folks  be  !  They  don't  never  know  when  they're  well 
off.  She's  had  an  easy  time  along  back;  but  she's 
seen  the  last  on't,  s-he's  seen  the  last  on't.  — Get  up, 
Jewpiter. ' ' 

Nothing  daunted  by  any  mystic  or  magnetic  sense  of 
this  vaticination  by  the  highway,  Deacon  Flint  whipped 
up  his  bony  steed  still  more,  and  to  such  good  purpose 
that  he  arrived  in  Colebrook  before  the  widow  had 
taken  down  the  last  pinned-up  curl  on  her  forehead,  or 
decided  which  of  her  two  worked  collars  she  would  put 
on,  and  whether  it  would  be  incongruous  to  wear  a 
brooch  of  blue  enamel  with  a  white  centre,  on  which 
was  depicted  (in  a  fine  brown  tint  produced  by  grind 
ing  up  in  oil  a  lock  of  the  deceased  Ethan  Gold's  hair) 
a  weeping- willow  bending  over  a  tomb,  with  an  urn, 
and  a  date  on  the  urn.  This  did  seem  a  little  personal 
on  such  an  occasion :  so  she  pinned  on  a  blue  bow  in 
stead,  and  went  down  to  receive  the  expecting  deacon. 


382  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Flint. 

"Comfortably  well,  I'm  obleeged  to  you,"  was  the 
prim  answer. 

But  the  deacon  was  not  to  be  daunted  at  this  crisis  : 
he  plunged  valiantly  into  the  middle  of  things  at  once. 
"I  suppose  you've  took  into  consideration  the  matter 
in  hand,  Miss  Gold?  " 

The  widow  creased  her  handkerchief  between  her 
finger  and  thumb,  and  seemed  to  be  critical  about  the 
hemming  of  it ;  but  she  pretty  soon  said  softly,  "  Yes, 
I  can't  say  but  what  I  have  thought  on't  a  good  deal. 
I've  counselled  some  with  the  children  too." 

"Well,  I  hope  you're  fit  and  prepared  to  acknowl 
edge  the  leadin's  of  Providence  to  this  end,  and  air 
about  ready  to  be  my  companion  through  the  valley  of 
this  world  up  to  them  fields  beyond  the  swellin'  flood 
stands  dressed  in  livin'  green.  Amen." 

The  deacon  forgot  he  was  not  in  a  prayer-meeting, 
and  so  dropped  into  the  hymn-book,  as  Mr.  Wegg  did 
into  secular  poetry. 

"  H'm,  well  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  thought  of  for 
and  ag'inst  it  too,"  remarked  Mrs.  Gold,  unwilling  to 
give  too  easy  an  assent,  and  so  cheapen  herself  in  the 
eyes  of  her  acute  adorer.  But,  when  her  thoughts  were 
sternly  sifted  down,  they  appeared  to  be  slight  matters  ; 
and  the  deacon  soon  carried  his  point.  He  wasted  no 
time  in  this  transaction.  Having  "shook  hands  on 
it,"  as  he  expressed  himself,  he  proceeded  at  once  to 
arrange  the  programme. 

"Well,  Sarepty,  we're  both  along  in  years,  and  to 
our  time  o'  life  delays  is  dangerous.  I  think  we'd 
better  get  married  pretty  quick.  I'm  keepin'  that 
great  lazy  Polly  Morse,  and  payiu'  out  cash  right 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      383 

along  ;  and  you  no  need  to  fix  up  any,  you've  got  good 
clothes  enough :  besides,  what's  clothes  to  worms  of 
the  dust  sech  as  we  be?  The  Catechism  says  'Man's 
chief  end  is  to  glorify  God  and  enjoy  him  forever ; ' 
and  if  that's  so,  —  and  I  expect  'tis  so,  — why,  'tain't 
nothin'  to  be  concerned  about  what  our  poor  dyin' 
bodies  is  clothed  in." 

Mrs.  Gold  did  not  agree  with  him  at  all.  She  liked 
her  clothes,  as  women  ought  to  ;  but  his  preternatural 
piety  awed  her,  and  she  said  meekly  enough,  "Well,  I 
don't  need  no  great  of  gowns.  I  sha'n't  buy  but  one, 
I  don't  believe." 

A  faint  color  stole  to  her  cheek  as  she  said  it,  for 
she  meant  a  wedding-dress ;  and  Deacon  Flint  was 
acute  enough  to  perceive  it,  and  to  understand  that  this 
was  a  point  he  could  not  carry. 

"One  gown  ain't  neither  here  nor  there,  Sarepty ; 
but  I  aim  to  fix  it  on  your  mind,  that,  as  I  said  afore, 
delays  is  dangerous.  I  purpose,  with  the  divine  bless- 
in',  to  be  married  this  day  two  weeks.  I  suppose 
you're  agreeable?"  The  widow  was  too  surprised  to 
deny  this  soft  impeachment;  and  he  went  on,  "Ye 
see,  there's  papers  to  be  drawed  up :  you've  got  inde 
pendent  means,  and  so  have  I,  and  it's  jest  as  well  to 
settle  things  fust  as  last.  Did  Ethan  Gold  leave  you 
a  life-int'rest  in  your  thirds,  or  out  an'  out?  " 

The  widow's  lip  trembled  :  her  dead  husband  had 
been  careful  of  her,  more  careful  than  she  knew,  till 
now. 

"  He  didn't  will  me  no  thirds  at  all :  he  left  me  use 
an'  privilege,  for  my  nateral  life,  of  every  thing  that 
was  his'n,  and  all  to  go  to  Mindwell  when  I'm  gone." 

"Do  tell!     He  was  forehanded,  I  declare  for't !  " 


384  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

exclaimed  the  deacon,  both  pleased  and  displeased  ; 
for,  if  his  wife's  income  was  to  be  greater  than  he  sup 
posed,  in  case  of  her  death  before  his  there  would  be 
no  increase  to  his  actual  possessions. 

"  Well,  I  always  calc'lated  you  had  your  thirds,  an' 
prob'ly,  knowin'  Ethan  was  free-handed,  you  had  'em 
out  an'  out.  This  makes  some  difference  about  what 
papers  I'll  have  to  have  drawed  up.  Now,  I  guess  the 
best  way  is  to  have  a  agreement  like  this  :  I  agree  not 
to  expect  to  hev  an'  to  hold  none  of  your  property,  an' 
you  don't  none  of  mine ;  but  I  to  have  the  use  of 
your' n,  and  you  to  have  your  livin'  out  o'  mine.  You 
sec,  you  don't  have  no  more'n  your  livin'  out  of  your'n 
now :  that's  all  we  any  of  us  get  in  this  here  world. 
'  Hevin'  food  an'  raiment,  let  us  therewith  be  content, r 
as  Scripter  says.  You  agree  to  this,  don't  }Te?  " 

Bewildered  with  the  plausible  phrases  ballasted  by  a 
text,  unaware  that  even  the  Devil  can  quote  Scripture 
to  serve  his  turn,  Mrs.  Gold  did  not  see  that  she  was 
putting  herself  entirely  into  the  hands  of  this  man,  and 
meekly  agreed  to  his  arrangement.  If  this  story  were 
not  absolutely  true,  I  should  scarce  dare  to  invent  such 
a  character  as  Deacon  Flint.  But  he  was  once  a  living 
man,  and  hesitating  to  condemn  him  utterly,  being  now 
defenceless  among  the  dead,  we  can  but  hope  for  him 
and  his  like  that  there  are  purifying  fires  beyond  this 
life,  where  he  may  be  melted  and  refined  into  the  image 
of  Him  who  made  him  a  man,  and  gave  him  a  long  life 
here  to  develop  manhood.  Not  till  after  he  was  gone 
did  Mrs.  Gold  begin  to  think  that  he  had  left  her  to 
explain  his  arrangements  to  Mindwell  and  Sam,  and 
instinctively  she  shrank  from  doing  so.  Like  many 
nnothcr  weak  woman,  she  hated  words,  particularly 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      385 

hard  words.  Her  life  had  flowed  on  in  a  gentle  routine, 
so  peacefully  that  she  had  known  but  one  sorrow,  and 
that  was  so  great,  that,  with  the  propensity  we  all  have 
to  balance  accounts  with  Providence,  she  thought  her 
trouble  had  been  all  she  could  bear.  But  there  was 
yet  reserved  for  her  that  sharp  attrition  of  life  which  is 
so  different  from  the  calm  and  awful  force  of  sorrow,  — 
so  much  more  exasperating,  so  much  more  educating. 
Some  instinct  warned  her  to  avoid  remonstrance  by 
concealing  from  her  children  the  contract  she  was  about 
to  make,  and  she  felt,  too,  the  uncertainty  of  a  woman 
unaccustomed  to  business,  about  her  own  clear  under 
standing  of  the  situation.  So  she  satisfied  herself  with 
telling  Mindwcll  of  the  near  approach  of  her  marriage. 

"O  mother,  so  soon  !  "  was  all  Mindwell  said,  though 
her  eyes  and  lips  spoke  far  more  eloquently. 

"Well,  now  the  thing's  settled,  I  don't  know  but 
what  it  may  as  well  be  over  with.  We  ain't  young 
folks,  Mindwell.  'Tain't  as  if  we  had  quite  a  spell  to 
live." 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  said  it.  A  certain 
misgiving  stole  over  her :  just  then  it  seemed  a  good 
thing  that  she  could  not  live  long. 

Mindwell  forced  back  the  sob  that  choked  her.  A 
woman  of  single  heart,  she  did  not  consider  a  second 
marriage  sacred.  For  herself,  she  would  rather  have 
taken  her  children  to  the  town-farm,  cold  as  corporative 
charity  is,  than  married  another  man  than  Samuel,  even 
if  he  had  been  dead  thirty  years  ;  and  she  bitterly  re 
sented  this  default  of  respect  to  her  father's  memory. 
But  her  filial  duty  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Dear  mother,  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  What 
shall  I  do?  What  will  the  children  say?  I  did  hope 
you  would  take  time  to  consider." 


386 


"  It  ain't  real  dutiful  in  you  to  take  me  to  do,  Miiid- 
well :  I'm  full  old  to  be  lessoned,  seems  to  me.  As 
for  you  and  the  children,  I  don't  feel  no  great  distress : 
love  runs  down,  not  up,  folks  say ;  and  I  don't  believe 
you'll  any  of  ye  pine  a  long  spell." 

This  weak  and  petulant  outburst  dismayed  Mindwell, 
who  had  never  seen  her  mother  otherwise  than  gentle 
and  pleasant ;  but,  with  the  tact  of  a  great  heart,  she 
said  nothing,  only  put  her  arms  about  the  elder  woman's 
neck,  and  kissed  her  over  and  over.  At  this,  Mrs. 
Gold  began  to  cry  ;  and,  in  soothing  her  distress,  Mind- 
well  forgot  to  ask  any  further  questions,  but  set  herself 
to  divert  both  their  minds  from  this  brief  and  bitter 
outburst  by  inquiring  what  preparation  her  mother 
meant  to  make  in  the  fortnight. 

"I  don't  look  to  no  great  preparation,"  sighed  the 
widow.  "I  have  always  had  good  clothes  enough, 
and  there's  a  piece  of  linen  I  wove  before  we  come 
here  that'll  do  for  all  I  want.  I  suppose  I  had  ought 
to  have  a  new  gown  to  be  married  in.  When  I  was 
married  to  Ethan,  I  had  a  white  dimity  gown  and  a 
blue  levantine  petticoat ;  and  if  he  didn't  fetch  me  a 
big  bunch  of  sand- violets — they  was  blossoming  then  — 
for  to  match  my  eyes  and  my  skirt,  he  said.  But  that's 
past  and  gone,  as  the  hymn-book  says.  I  do  want  to 
have  one  good  gown,  Mindwell ;  and,  now  I'm  a  little 
along  in  years,  I  guess  I'll  have  a  dark  one.  T'other 
night,  when  we  was  up  to  Squire  Barnes's  to  tea,  Miss 
Barnes  was  telling  about  a  piece  of  plum-colored 
paduasoy  Mr.  Battle  bought  in  Har'ford  for  'Lecty's 
weddin'-gown,  and  she  wouldn't  hev  it.  She  said 
'twasn't  lively  enough,  and  so  she's  set  her  mind  on  a 
blue  levantine.  But  I  should  think  the  plum-color 
would  become  me  real  well." 


MES.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      387 

So  the  plum-colored  silk  was  bought ;  and  arrayed  in 
its  simple  folds,  with  a  new  worked  collar  and  a  white 
satin  bow,  the  Widow  Gold  was  dressed  for  her  second 
wedding. 

Did  she  think,  as  she  looked  into  her  oval  mirror 
that  morning,  what  a  different  vision  was  this  quiet, 
elderly,  sober  woman,  in  decent  but  not  festal  gar 
ments,  from  the  smiling,  blushing,  blue-eyed  creature 
in  her  spotless  dimity  gown  opening  over  a  blue  petti 
coat,  and  clasped  at  the  throat  with  a  bunch  of  still 
bluer  violets  ?  What  does  a  woman  think  who  is  mar 
ried  the  second  time  ?  A  man  is  satisfied  that  now  his 
house  will  be  kept  once  more,  his  clothes  mended,  his 
whims  humored,  his  table  spread  to  his  taste,  and 
his  children  looked  after.  If  it  is  needful,  he  can 
marry  six  wives  one  after  the  other.  They  are  a  do 
mestic  necessity :  the  Lord  himself  says  it  is  not  good 
for  man  to  be  alone.  But  it  is  quite  another  thing  for 
the  woman.  Such  a  relation  is  not  a  movable  feast  to 
her :  it  is  once  for  all ;  and,  if  circumstance  or  pique 
betray  her  into  this  faithlessness,  what  does  she  think 
of  herself  when  it  becomes  inevitable  ? 

The  Widow  Gold  did  not  tell.  She  was  paler  when 
she  turned  from  the  glass  than  when  she  looked  into 
it ;  and  she  trembled  as  she  went  down  stairs  to  sign 
the  papers  before  Parson  Roberts  should  arrive. 

The  best  parlor  was  opened  to-day.  The  high- 
backed  chairs  with  old  brocade  cushions,  that  had  be 
longed  to  Sam  Pratt' s  grandmother,  were  ranged  along 
the  wall  like  a  row  of  stiff  ghosts  ;  the  corner-cupboards 
were  set  open  to  display  the  old  china  and  glass  that 
filled  them ;  there  was  a  ' '  bow-pot ' '  of  great  red 
peonies,  abundant  and  riotous  with  color  and  fatness, 


888  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

set  under  the  chimney  in  the  well-whited  fireplace  ;  and 
a  few  late  roses  glowed  in  a  blue  china  jar  on  the  high 
mantelpiece.  On  a  square  table  with  a  leaf  lay  a  legal 
paper  that  Sam  was  reading,  with  his  hands  supporting 
his  head  as  if  it  was  hard  to  understand  the  document. 

The  deacon,  in  his  Sunday  garments,  was  looking  at 
him  askance  ;  and  Mind  well,  with  the  little  girls  Ede 
and  Sylvia  clinging  to  her  gown,  was  staring  out  of 
the  window,  down  the  road,  —  staring,  but  not  seeing  ; 
for  the  splendid  summer  day  that  lavished  its  bloom 
and  verdure  and  odor  on  these  gaunt  New-England 
hills,  and  hid  their  rude  poverty  with  its  royal  mantle, 
was  all  a  dim  blur  to  the  heart- wrung  woman. 

"Mother,"  said  Sam  Pratt,  raising  his  head,  "do 
you  know  what's  the  sum  and  substance  of  these  here 
papers?  and  do  you  agree  to't?  " 

The  widow  glanced  aside  at  Deacon  Flint,  and  caught 
his  "married  eye,"  early  as  it  was  to  use  that  ocular 
weapon. 

"Why,  yes,  Samwell :  I  don't  know  but  what  I 
do,"  she  said  slowly  and  rather  timidly. 

"Well,"  said  Sam,  rising,  and  pushing  the  paper 
away,  "  if  you  do,  why,  then  you're  going  right  into't, 
and  it's  right,  I  s'pose  ;  but,  by  Jinks  !  I  think  it's  the 
d— " 

Mind  well's  touch  on  his  arm  arrested  the  sentence. 
"There's  Parson  Roberts,  Samwell.  You  jest  help 
him  out  of  the  gig,  will  you?  He's  quite  lame,  I  see." 

Sam  Pratt  went,  with  the  half-finished  sentence  on 
his  lips.  He  was  glad  his  wife  had  stopped  him,  on 
many  accounts  ;  but  he  did  long  to  give  Deacon  Flint 
his  own  opinion  of  that  preliminary  contract. 

He  indulged  himself  for  this  deprivation,  after  the 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      389 

stiff  and  somewhat  melancholy  wedding  was  over,  and 
the  staid  couple  had  departed  for  Bassett  in  the  deacon's 
wagon,  by  freeing  his  mind  to  his  wife. 

"Miss  Pratt,  I  was  some  riled  to  hev  you  stop  me 
when  I  was  a-goin'  to  tell  the  deacon  what  I  thought 
about  that  there  contrack  ;  but  I  don't  never  stay  riled 
with  you,  marm,  as  you'd  ought  to  know  by  this  time." 
And  Sam  emphasized  this  statement  with  a  hearty  kiss. 
"  Besides,  I  will  own  on  second  thoughts  I  was  glad 
you  did  stop  me  ;  for  it's  no  use  pinchin'  your  fingers 
in  a  pair  o'  nippers.  But  I  do  say  now  and  here,  it 
was  the  darndest  piece  o'  swindlin'  I  ever  see,  — done 
under  a  cover  of  law  an'  gospel,  you  may  say ;  for  the 
deacon  had  stuck  in  a  bit  of  Scripter  so's  to  salt  it  like. 
He's  got  the  best  of  the  bargain,  I  tell  ye,  a  long  sight. 
I'm  real  glad  your  father  went  and  fixed  that  prop'ty 
so  she  has  the  use  on't  only  ;  for  she  wouldn't  have  two 
cents  in  two  years'  time,  if  she'd  had  it  to  do  with  what 
she's  a  mind  to." 

"I  am  glad  he  did,"  said  Mindwell.  "I  have  felt 
as  though  mother  would  be  better  suited  if  she  did  have 
it  to  do  what  she  liked  to  with ;  but  if  this  was  to 
happen,  why,  it's  as  good  she  is  provided  for.  She 
can't  want  for  nothing  now." 

"  I  guess  she'll  want  for  more'n  money,  and  mabbe 
for  that  too.  The  paper  says  she's  to  have  her  livin'. 
Now,  that's  a  wide  word.  Folks  can  live  on  bread  and 
water,  I  expect ;  and  he  can't  be  holdcn  for  no  more 
than  he's  a  mind  to  give." 

"O  Sam,  you  don't  think  Deacon  Flint  would 
grudge  her  a  good  living  ?  Why,  if  he  is  near,  as  folks 
tell  he  is,  he's  a  professor  of  religion." 

"I'd  a  durned  sight  rather  he  was  a  practiser  on't, 


390  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Miss  Pratt.  Religion's  about  the  best  thing  there  is ; 
and  makiu'  believe  it  is  about  the  wust.  I  b'lieve'  in 
Amasy  Flint's  religion  jest  so  far  forth  as  I  hear  him 
talk,  an'  not  a  inch  farther.  I  know  he'll  pinch  an' 
shave  an'  spare  to  the  outside  of  a  cheese-rind ;  and  I 
haven't  no  great  reason  to  think  he'll  do  better  by 
Mother  Gold  than  he  does  by  himself."  Mindwell 
turned  away,  full  of  foreboding ;  and  Sam,  following 
her,  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  drew  her  back  to  the 
settle. 

"  Don't  worry,  dear.  She's  made  her  bed,  and  she's 
got  to  lie  on't.  But,  after  all,  it's  the  Lord  who  lets 
folks  do  that  way,  so's  to  show  'em,  I  expect,  that 
beds  ain't  always  meant  to  sleep  on,  but  sometimes  to 
wake  folks  up.  We're  kind  of  apt  to  lie  long  an'  get 
lazy  on  feathers.  I  expect  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  me.  I'll  get  my  husks  by  and  by,  I  guess." 

Mindwell  looked  up  at  him,  with  all  her  heart  in  her 
eyes  ;  but  she  said  nothing,  and  he  gave  a  shy  laugh. 
Their  deep  love  for  each  other  was  "a  fountain  shut 
up  ;  "  and  so  far  no  angel  had  rolled  away  the  stone, 
and  given  it  visible  life.  It  was  still  voiceless  and 
sleeping. 

Before  her  wedding-day  was  over,  Mrs.  Flint's  new 
life  began  ;  for  Polly  Morse  had  been  sent  off  the  night 
before,  being  the  end  of  an  even  week,  lest  she  might 
charge  ninepence  for  an  extra  day.  So  her  successor 
without  wages  had  to  lay  aside  her  plum-colored  silk, 
put  on  a  calimanco  petticoat  and  short-gown,  and  pro 
ceed  to  get  supper  ;  while  Polly,  leaning  over  the  half- 
door  of  the  old  red  house  which  she  shared  with  the 
village  tailoress,  exchanged  pungent  remarks  with  old 
Israel  on  the  topic  of  the  day  in  Bassett. 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      391 

"  No,  they  didn't  make  no  weddin',  Isr'el.  There 
wa'n't  nobody  asked,  nor  no  loaf-cake  made  for  her : 
he  wouldn't  hear  to't,  noway.  I'd  have  staid  and 
fixed  up  for  her  to-day ;  but  he  was  bound  I  shouldn't. 
As  for  me,  I'm  most  amazin'  glad  to  get  hum,  now  I 
tell  ye.  I'd  a  sight  rather  be  in  Simsbury  prison  for  a 
spell,  if  it  wa'n't  for  the  name  on't." 

' '  Say,  Polly,  do  you  call  to  mind  what  I  said  three 
weeks  back  about  Miss  Flint  comin'  home  ?  Oh  !  ye  do, 
do  ye?  Well,  I  ain't  nobody's  fool,  be  I?  I  guess  I 
can  see  through  a  millstone,  providin'  the  hole's  big 
enough,  as  well  as  the  next  man.  I'm  what  ye  may 
call  mighty  obsarvin',  now.  I  can  figger  consider'ble 
well  on  folks,  ef  I  can't  on  'rithmetic ;  and  I  know'd 
jest  as  well,  when  I  see  him  rigged  up  in  his  sabba'-day 
go-to-meetin's,  and  his  nose  p'inted  for  Colebrook,  what 
he  was  up  to,  as  though  I  heerd  him  a-askin'  her  to 
hev  him." 

"Well,  I  never  did  think  Sarepty  Gold  would  de 
mean  herself  to  have  him.  She's  got  means  and  a  real 
good  home  ;  and  Mindwell  sets  a  sight  by  her,  and  so 
does  Sam  Pratt :  but  here  she's  ben  an'  gone  an'  done 
it.  I  wouldn't  ha'  thought  it,  not  if  th'  angel  Gabriel 
had  have  told  me  on't." 

"  Guess  he's  in  better  business  than  goin'  round  with 
Bassett  gossip,  anyhow.  But  what  was  you  so  took 
back  by  ?  Lordy  !  I  should  think  you  was  old  enough 
to  git  over  bein'  surprised  at  women-folks :  them  and 
the  weather  is  two  things  I  don't  never  calc'late  on. 
You  can't  no  more  tell  what  a  woman'll  do,  'specially 
about  marryin',  than  you  can  tell  which  way  in  the  road 
a  pig'll  go,  onless  you  work  it  back'ard,  same  as  some 
folks  tell  they  drive  a  pig ;  and  then  'tain't  reel  reli- 


392  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

able  :  they  may  go  right  ahead  when  you  don't  a  mite 
expect  it." 

"That  is  one  thing  about  men,  I  allow,  Isr'el:  you 
can  always  tell  which  way  they'll  go  for  sartain  ;  and 
that  is  after  their  own  advantage,  an'  nobody  else's, 
now  an'  forever." 

"Amen!  They'd  be  all  fools,  like  me,  if  they 
didn't,"  assented  the  old  man,  with  a  dry  chuckle,  as 
he  drove  off  his  empty  cart.  Yet,  for  all  his  sneers  and 
sniffs,  neither  Polly  nor  the  new  Mrs.  Flint  had  a  truer 
friend  than  Israel.  Rough  as  he  was,  satiric  as  a  chest 
nut  burr  that  shows  all  its  prickles  in  open  defiance, 
conscious  of  a  sweet  white  heart  within,  his  words  only 
were  bitter :  his  nature  was  generous,  kindly,  and  per 
ceptive.  He  had  become  the  peripatetic  satirist  and 
philosopher  that  he  was  out  of  this  very  nature, 

"Dowered  with  a  scorn  of  scorn,  a  love  of  love," 

and  free  with  the  freedom  of  independent  poverty  to 
express  pungently  what  he  felt  poignantly,  being  in  his 
own  kind  and  measure  the  ' '  salt  of  the  earth ' '  to 
Bassett. 

But,  in  spite  of  comment  and  pity,  the  thing  was  a 
fixed  fact.  Mrs.  Flint's  married  life  had  begun  under 
new  auspices,  and  it  was  not  a  path  of  roses  upon 
which  she  had  entered.  Her  housekeeping  had  always 
been  frugal,  with  the  thrift  that  is  or  was  characteristic 
of  her  race  ;  but  it  had  been  abundant  for  the  wants  of 
her  family.  The  viands  she  provided  were  those  of 
the  place  and  period,  simple  and  primitive  enough  ;  but 
the  great  brick  oven  was  well  filled  with  light  bread  of 
wheat  and  r}7e  both ;  pies  of  whatever  material  was  in 
season,  whose  flaky  crust  and  well-filled  interiors  testi- 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      393 

ficd  to  her  knowledge  of  the  art ;  deep  dishes  of  baked 
beans ;  jars  of  winter  pears ;  pans  of  golden-sweet 
apples  ;  and  cards  of  yellow  gingerbread,  with  rows  of 
snowy  and  puffy  biscuit.  Ede  and  Sylvia  knew  very 
well  where  to  find  crisp  cookies  and  fat  nut-cakes  ;  and 
pie  was  reiterated  three  times  a  day  on  Sam  Pratt' s 
table. 

It  was  a  part  of  her  ' '  pride  of  life ' '  that  she  was  a 
good  housekeeper ;  and  Mindwell  had  given  her  the 
widest  liberty.  But  now  the  tide  had  changed.  She 
soon  found  that  Deacon  Flint's  parsimony  extended 
into  evciy  detail.  Her  pies  were  first  assailed. 

"  Sarepty,  don't  make  them  pies  o  'your'n  so  all-fired 
rich.  They  ain't  good  for  the  stomach  :  besides,  they 
use  up  all  the  drippin's,  and  you  had  ought  to  make 
soap  next  month.  Pie  is  good,  and  I  think  it's  savin' 
of  meat.  But  it  pompers  up  the  flesh,  too  good  liviif 
does  ;  and  we  hev  got  to  give  an  account,  ye  know.  I 
don't  mean  to  have  no  wicked  waste  laid  to  my  ac 
count." 

So  she  left  out  half  the  shortening  from  her  crust, 
and  felt  ashamed  to  see  the  tough  substance  this 
economy  produced.  Next  came  the  sugar  question. 

"We  buy  too  much  sweeteuiu',  Sarepty.  There's 
a  kag  of  tree-molasses  down  cellar.  I  expect  it's 
worked  some  ;  but  you  jest  take  an'  bile  it  up,  an'  stir 
consider'ble  saleratus  into't,  an'  it'll  do.  I  want  to  get 
along  jest  as  reasonable  as  we  can.  Wilful  waste 
makes  woful  want,  ye  know." 

Yet  in  his  own  way  the  deacon  was  greedy  enough. 
He  had  the  insatiable  appetite  that  belongs  to  people 
of  his  figure  far  more  often  than  to  the  stout. 

"He's  a  real  racer,"  said  Uncle  Israel,  reverting  to 


394  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

his  own  experience  in  pigs,  —  "slab-sided  an'  lank. 
I  bet  you  could  count  his  ribs  this  minnit ;  and  that's 
the  kind  you  can  feed  till  the  day  after  never,  and  they 
won't  do  ye  no  credit.  I  never  see  a  man  could  punish 
vittles  the  way  he  can  ;  but  there  ain't  no  more  fat  to 
him  than  there  is  to  a  hen's  forehead." 

Mrs.  Flint  was  not  "  hungry  nor  hankering,"  as  she 
expressed  it,  but  a  reasonable  eater  of  plain  food ;  but 
the  deacon's  mode  of  procedure  was  peculiar. 

"  Say,  Sarepty,  don't  bile  but  a  small  piece  o'  pork 
with  that  cabbage  to-day.  I've  got  a  pain  to  my  head, 
an'  I  don't  feel  no  appetite  ;  an'  cold  pork  gets  eat  up 
for  supper  when  there  ain't  no  need  on't." 

Obeying  instructions,  the  small  piece  of  fat  pork 
would  be  cooked,  and,  once  at  the  table,  transferred 
bodily  to  the  deacon's  plate.  "  Seems  as  though  my 
appetite  had  reelly  come  back.  I  guess  'twas  a  hun 
gry  headache."  And  the  tired  woman  had  to  make 
her  dinner  from  cabbage  and  potatoes  seasoned  with 
the  salt  and  greasy  water  in  which  they  had  been 
cooked. 

There  were  no  amusements  for  her  out  of  the  house. 
The  younger  people  had  their  berrying  frolics,  sleigh- 
rides,  kitchen-dances,  nuttings,  and  the  like  ;  and  their 
elders,  their  huskings,  apple-bees,  and  sewing-societies  : 
but  against  all  these  the  deacon  set  his  hard  face. 

"  It's  jest  as  good  to  do  your  own  extry  chores  your 
self  as  to  ask  folks  to  come  an'  help.  That  costs 
more'n  it  comes  to.  You've  got  to  feed  'em,  and  like 
enough  keep  a  big  fire  up  in  the  spare  room.  I'd  ruther 
be  diligent  in  business,  as  Scripter  says,  than  depend 
on  neighbors." 

The  sewing-society,  too,  was  denied  to  poor  Mrs. 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.   '  895 

Flint,  because  they  had  to  have  tea  got  for  them. 
Prayer-meetings  he  could  not  deny  her ;  for  they  cost 
nothing,  and  officially  he  attended  them.  Meeting  on 
Sunday  was  another  outlet,  when  she  could  see  friendly 
faces,  receive  kind  greetings,  and  read  in  many  eyes  a 
sympathy  and  pity  that  at  once  pleased  and  exasper 
ated  her. 

Another  woman  in  her  place  might  have  had  spirit 
or  guile  enough  to  have  resisted  the  pressure  under 
which  she  only  quailed  and  submitted.  She  was  one 
of  those  feeble  souls  to  whom  a  hard  word  is  like  a 
blow,  and  who  will  bear  any  thing  and  every  thing 
rather  than  be  found  fault  with,  and  who  necessarily 
become  drudges  and  slaves  to  those  with  whom  they 
live,  and  are  despised  and  ill-treated  simply  because 
they  are  incapable  of  resentment.  There  are  some 
persons  who  stand  in  this  position  not  so  much  from 
want  of  strength  as  from  abounding  and  eager  affec 
tion  for  those  whom  they  serve  ;  and  their  suffering, 
when  they  discover  how  vain  has  been  their  labor  and 
self-sacrifice,  is  known  only  to  Him  who  was 

"At  once  denied,  betrayed,  and  fled 
By  those  who  shared  his  daily  bread." 

But  Mrs.  Flint  had  no  affection  for  her  husband :  she 
married  him  because  it  seemed  a  good  thing  to  do,  and 
obeyed  him  because  he  was  her  husband,  as  was  the 
custom  in  those  days.  So  she  toiled  on  dumbly  from 
day  to  day,  half  fed,  overworked,  desperately  lonely, 
but  still  uncomplaining  ;  for  her  constitution  was  natu 
rally  strong,  and  nerves  were  unrecognized  then. 

Her  only  comfort  was  the  rare  visits  of  her  children. 
Mindwell  found  it  hard  to  leave  home  ;  but,  suspicious 


396   «•  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

of  her  mother's  comfort,  she  made  every  effort  to  see 
her  as  often  as  possible,  arid  always  to  carry  her  some 
little  present,  —  a  dozen  fresh  eggs,  which  the  poor 
woman  boiled  privately,  and  ate  between  her  scanty 
meals,  a  few  peaches,  or  a  little  loaf  of  cake,  —  small 
gifts,  merely  to  demonstrate  her  feeling.  She  did  not 
know  what  good  purpose  they  served,  for  Mrs.  Flint 
did  not  tell  her  daughter  what  she  endured.  She 
remembered  too  well  how  Mindwell  had  begged  her  to 
delay  and  consider  her  marriage  ;  and  she  would  not 
own  to  her  now  that  she  had  made  any  mistake :  for 
Mrs.  Flint  had  as  much  human  nature  in  her  composi 
tion  as  the  rest  of  us  ;  and  w ho  does  like  to  hear  even 
their  dearest  friend  say,  "  I  told  you  so  "  ? 

Matters  went  on  in  this  way  for  five  years,  every 
day  being  a  little  more  weary  and  dreary  than  the  pre 
ceding.  The  plum-colored  paduasoy  still  did  dut}7  as 
the  Sunday  gown,  for  none  of  her  own  money  ever 
passed  into  Mrs.  Flint's  hands.  By  this  time  she 
understood  fully  what  her  ante-nuptial  contract  meant. 
She  had  her  living,  and  no  more.  People  could  live 
without  finery,  even  without  warmth.  A  stuff  gown  of 
coarse  linsey-woolsey  for  winter  wear  replaced  the  soft 
merinoes  she  had  always  bought  for  that  purpose  ;  and 
homespun  linen  check  was  serviceable  in  summer, 
though  it  kept  her  busy  at  flax-wheel  and  loom  many 
an  hour.  She  had  outlived  the  early  forbearances  of 
her  married  life,  and  learned  to  ask,  to  beg,  to  persist 
in  entreating,  for  what  she  absolutely  needed  ;  for  only 
in  this  way  could  she  get  her  "  living."  Her  only  vivid 
pleasure  was  in  occasional  visits  from  Ede  and  Sylvia, 
—  lovely  little  creatures  in  whom  their  mother's  beauty 
of  character  and  then1  father's  cheery,  genial  nature 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.       397 

seemed  to  combine,  and  with  so  much  of  Mindw ell's 
delicate  loveliness,  her  sweet,  dark  eyes  contrasted  with 
the  fair  hair  of  their  father's  family,  that  to  grand 
motherly  eyes  they  seemed  perfectly  beautiful.  For 
them  the  poor  woman  schemed  and  toiled,  and  grew 
secretive.  She  hid  a  comb  of  honey  sometimes,  when 
the  deacon's  back  was  turned,  and  kept  it  for  Sylvia, 
who  loved  honey  like  a  real  bee-bird  ;  she  stored  up  red 
pearmains  in  the  parlor- closet  for  Ede  ;  and  when  Sam 
Pratt  went  into  Hartford  with  a  load  of  wool,  and 
brought  the  children  as  far  as  Bassett  to  stay  at  Dea 
con  Flint's  over  night,  the  poor  woman  would  make  for 
them  gingerbread  such  as  they  remembered,  and  savory 
cookies  that  they  loved,  though  she  encountered  hard 
looks,  and  hard  words  too,  for  wasting  her  husband's 
substance  on  another  man's  children. 

Ede,  who  had  a  ready  memory  and  a  fluent  tongue, 
was  the  first  to  report  to  Mindwell  these  comments  of 
"  G rands ir  Flint,"  as  they  were  taught  to  call  him. 

"O  mother,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  do  think  grandsir 
is  real  mean  ! ' ' 

"Edy,  Edy,  you  mustn't  talk  so  about  your  elders 
and  betters." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  chattered  on  the  irrepressible 
child.  "What  did  he  want  to  come  into  the  kitchen 
for  when  granny  was  giving  us  supper,  and  scold 
because  she  made  cookies  for  us  ?  Granny  'most  cried  ; 
and  he  kept  tellin'  how  he'd  said  before  she  shouldn't 
do  it,  and  he  wouldn't  have  it." 

"Don't  talk  about  it,  Edy,"  said  her  mother,  full 
of  grief  and  indignation. 

"Mother,  it's  true.  I  heard  him  too,"  interposed 
Sylvia,  who  thought  Ede's  word  was  doubted  ;  for  the 


398  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

voluble  and  outspoken  child  was  a  little  apt  to  embel 
lish  her  reports. 

"Well,  Sylvy  dear,  it  isn't  best  to  talk  about  a  good 
many  things  that  are  true." 

But,  for  all  that,  Mindwell  did  discuss  the  matter 
with  Sam  before  she  slept,  in  that  "grand  committee 
of  two  ' '  which  is  the  strength  and  comfort  of  a  happy 
marriage. 

"What  ever  can  we  do  about  it,  Sam?"  she  said, 
with  tears  in  her  voice.  "I  can't  bear  to  keep  the 
children  to  home,  — mother  sets  by  'em  like  her  life  ; 
but,  if  they're  going  to  make  trouble  between  her 
and  Deacon  Flint,  don't  you  think  I  had  ought  to  pre 
vent  their  going  there  ?  ' ' 

"  Well,  it  does  seem  hard  on  mother  every  way  ;  but 
I  guess  I  can  fix  it.  You  know  we  had  a  heap  of 
wheat  off  that  east  lot  last  year,  and  I've  sent  it  to 
mill  to  be  ground  up  for  us.  I  guess  I'll  take  and 
send  a  barrel  on't  over  to  mother  for  a  present.  The 
deacon  won't  mistrust  nothing  ;  nor  he  can't  say  noth 
ing  about  her  usin'  on't  for  the  children." 

"That's  the  very  thing,"  said  Mindwell.  And  so 
it  was,  for  that  small  trouble  ;  yet  that  was  only  a  drop 
in  the  bucket.  After  a  few  years  of  real  privation, 
and  a  worse  hunger  of  spirit,  Mrs.  Flint's  health 
began  to  fail.  She  grew  nervous  and  irritable,  and 
the  deacon  browbeat  her  more  than  ever.  Her  tem 
per  had  long  since  failed  under  the  hourly  exaspera 
tion  of  her  husband's  companionship,  and  she  had 
become  as  cross,  as  peevish,  and  as  exasperating 
herself  as  a  feeble  nature  can  become  under  such  a 
pressure. 

"  I  never  see  nobody  so  changed  as  Miss  Flint  is," 


MRS.   FLINT'S   MARRIED   EXPERIENCE.        399 

confided  Aunt  Polly  to  old  Israel.  "I've  always 
heerd  tell  that  'fictions  was  sent  for  folks's  good  ;  but 
her'n  don't  seem  to  work  that  way  a  mite." 

"  Well,  Polly,  I  expect  there's  a  reel  vital  differ'nce 
in  'fictions,  jest  as  there  is  in  folks. '  She  picked  her'n 
up,  as  you  may  say,  when  she  married  him.  'Twan't 
reelly  the  Lord's  sendin'.  She  no  need  to  ha'  married 
him,  if  she  hadn't  ben  a  miu'  to." 

"I  sorter  thought  the  Lord  sent  every  thing 't  hap 
pened  to  folks." 

"Well,  in  a  manner  mabbe  he  doos.  But  don't  ye 
rek'lect  what  David  said,  —  how't  he'd  rather  fall 
inter  the  hands  of  the  Lord  than  inter  men's?  I 
expect  we're  to  blame  for  wilful  sins,  ain't  we?  And 
I  guess  we  fetch  'fictions  on  ourselves  sometimes." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  make  them  idees  jibe  with 
'lection  and  fore-ordination,"  rejoined  Aunt  Polly, 
who  was  a  zealous  theologian,  and  believed  the  Say- 
brook  Platform  and  the  Assembly's  Catechism  to  be 
merely  a  skilful  abridgment  and  condensation  of  Scrip 
ture. 

"I  don't  know  as  I'm  called  to,  Polly.  I  don't 
believe  the  Lord's  ways  is  jest  like  a  primer,  for  every 
body  to  larn  right  off.  I  shouldn't  have  no  great 
respect  for  a  ruler  an'  governor,  as  the  Confession 
sez,  that  wa'n't  no  bigger'n  I  was.  Land !  ef  I 
was  to  set  sail  on  them  seas  o'  divinity,  I  should 
be  snooped  up  in  the  fust  gale,  an'  drownded  right 
off.  I  b'lieve  He  is  good,  and  doos  right,  anyhow. 
Ef  I  can't  see  the  way  on't,  why,  it's  'cause  my  spirit- 
ooal  eyes  ain't  big  enough.  I  can't  see  into  some 
littler  things  than  him,  and  I  don't  hold  to  takin'  up 
the  sea  in  a  pint  cup  :  'twon't  carry  it,  nohow."  With 


400  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

which  aphorism  old  Israel  travelled  off  with  his  bar 
row,  leaving  Polly  amazed  and  shocked,  but  perhaps 
a  little  wiser  after  all. 

Just  about  this  time  a  cousin  of  Deacon  Flint's  died 
"  over  in  York  State,"  as  he  said,  and  left  him  guard 
ian  of  her  only  daughter,  a  girl  of  eighteen.  A  couple 
of  thousand  dollars  was  all  the  property  that  the  Widow 
Eldridge  had  to  give  her  child ;  for  they  had  both 
worked  hard  for  their  living  after  the  husband  and 
father  left  them,  and  this  money  was  the  price  of  the 
farm,  which  had  been  sold  at  his  death.  It  was  some 
thing  to  get  so  much  cash  into  his  own  hands  ;  and  the 
deacon  accordingly  wrote  at  once  to  Mabel,  and  offered 
her  a  home  in  his  house,  intimating,  that,  the  interest  of 
her  money  not  being  enough  to  board  and  clothe  her, 
he  would,  out  of  family  affection,  supply  these  necessi 
ties  for  that  inadequate  sum,  if  she  was  willing  to  help 
a  little  about  the  house.  Mabel  was  friendless  enough 
to  grasp  eagerly  this  hope  of  a  home  ;  and  very  soon 
the  stage  stopped  at  Deacon  Flint's  door,  and  a  new 
inmate  entered  his  house. 

Mabel  Eldridge  was  a  capable,  spirited,  handsome 
girl,  and,  before  she  had  been  a  week  in  the  Flint 
family,  understood  her  position,  and  resolved  only  to 
endure  it  till  something  better  could  be  found.  In 
her  heart  she  pitied  Aunt  Flint,  as  she  called  her,  as 
much  as  she  detested  the  deacon  ;  and  her  fresh  girlish 
heart  fairly  ached  with  compassion  and  indignation 
over  the  poor  woman.  But  she  was  a  great  com 
fort  and  help  while  she  staid ;  though  she  made  that 
stay  as  short  as  possible,  and  utterly  refused  to  give 
up  her  savings-bank  book  to  the  deacon,  who  was 
unable  legally  to  claim  it,  since  her  mother  left  no  will, 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      401 

having  only  asked  him,  in  a  letter  written  just  before 
her  death,  to  act  as  Mabel's  guardian.  Her  three 
mouths'  sojourn  in  the  house  made  her  thoroughly 
aware  of  Deacon  Flint's  character  and  his  wife's  suf 
ferings.  She  could  not  blame  Mrs.  Flint  that  she 
snapped  back  at  the  deacon's  snarls,  or  complained 
long  and  bitterly  of  her  wants  and  distresses. 

"You  don't  know  nothing  what  it  is,  Mabel,"  she 
said  one  day,  sobbing  bitterly.  "I'm  put  upon  so 
hard  !  I  want  for  clothes,  and  for  vittles,  and  for  some 
time  to  rest,  so's't  I  don't  know  but  what  'twill  clean 
kill  me :  and,  if  'twa'n't  for  the  childern,  I'd  wish  to 
die ;  but  I  do  cleave  to  them  amazingly." 

Indignant  tears  filled  Mab's  eyes.  "I  don't  know 
how  you  bear  it,  aunty,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms 
about  the  old  lady's  neck.  "  Can't  you  get  away  from 
him  anyhow  ?  ' ' 

"  I  could,  but  I  suppose  I  hadn't  ought  to.  There's 
a  house  on  my  farm  that  ain't  goin'  to  be  in  use  come 
next  April.  Hiram  Smith  —  him  that's  rented  it  along 
back  —  wants  some  repairin'  done  on't,  and  Mr.  Flint 
won't  hear  to't :  so  Hi  he's  been  and  gone  and  bought 
a  piece  of  ground  acrost  the  road,  an'  put  up  a  buildin' 
for  himself.  He's  got  a  long  lease  of  the  land ;  but 
he  don't  want  the  house  no  more,  and  he  won't  pay 
for't.  I  s'pose  I  might  move  over  there  for  a  spell, 
and  have  some  peace.  There's  enough  old  furnitoor 
there  that  was  father's.  But  then,  agin,  I  do  suppose  I 
haven't  no  right  to  leave  my  husband." 

"Haven't  you  got  any  right  to  save  your  life?" 
indignantly  asked  'Mabel. 

"  It  ha'n't  come  to  that,  not  quite,"  said  Mrs.  Flint 
sadly. 


402  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

But  before  April  she  began  to  think  it  was  a  matter 
of  life  and  death  to  stay  any  longer  with  the  man. 
Mabel  had  left  her  some  months  before,  and  gone 
into  the  family  of  Sam  Pratt' s  mother,  in  Colebrook, 
promising  her  aunt,  that,  if  ever  the  time  came  when 
she  needed  her  in  another  home,  she  would  come  and 
take  care  of  her. 

Toward  the  middle  of  February  Mrs.  Flint  was 
seized  with  congestion  of  the  lungs,  and  was  very  ill 
indeed.  A  fear  of  public  opinion  made  Deacon  Flint 
send  for  the  doctor ;  but  nothing  could  induce  him  to 
let  a  nurse  enter  the  house,  or  even  to  send  for  Mind- 
well  Pratt.  He  was  able  to  do  for  his  wife,  he  said, 
and  nobody  could  interfere. 

It  was  the  depth  of  winter ;  and  the  communication 
between  Bassett  and  Colebrook  was  not  frequent  in 
the  best  weather,  neither  place  being  dependent  on  the 
other  for  supplies  ;  and  now  the  roads  were  blocked 
with  heavy  drifts,  and  the  inhabitants  of  both  places 
had  hibernated,  as  New-Englanders  must  in  winter.  It 
was  a  matter  of  congratulation  with  Deacon  Flint  that 
he  had  no  out-door  work  to  do  just  now,  and  so  was 
spared  the  expense  of  a  woman  to  care  for  his  wife. 
He  could  do  it,  too,  more  economically  than  a  nurse. 
It  did  not  matter  to  him  that  the  gruel  was  lumpy,  or 
burned,  or  served  without  flavoring.  Sick  folks,  par 
ticularly  with  serious  sickness,  ought  not  to  pamper  the 
flesh :  their  souls  were  the  things  to  be  considered. 
He  did  not  want  to  have  Sarepta  die,  for  she  had  an 
income  that  helped  him  much ;  but  he  did  not  want 
her  to  be  a  "  bill  of  expense,"  as  he  phrased  it.  So 
while  he  read  the  Bible  to  her  twice  a  day,  and  prayed 
to,  or  rather  at,  her  by  the  hour,  he  fed  her  on  sloppy 


MBS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      403 

gruel  and  hard  bread,  sage-tea,  and  cold  toast  with 
out  butter,  and  just  kept  life  flickering  within  her 
till  she  could  get  about  and  help  herself,  unknown  to 
him,  to  draughts  of  fresh  milk,  and  now  and  then  a 
raw  egg. 

But  she  did  not  get  well :  she  was  feeble,  and 
wasted  a  long  time.  The  village  doctor,  knowing 
what  Deacon  Flint  was,  and  filled  with  pity  for  his 
wife,  called  often,  carefully  stating  that  his  visits  were 
those  of  a  friend,  but  urging,  also,  that  Mrs.  Flint 
should  have  a  generous  diet,  and  a  glass  of  wine  daily, 
to  restore  her  strength.  The  deacon  heard  him  through 
in  silence,  and  when  he  left  began  to  growl. 

"Well,  fools  a'n't  all  dead  yet.  Wine!  I  guess 
not.  A  good  drink  o'  thoroughwort- tea's  wuth  all  the 
wine  in  creation.  '  Wine's  a  mocker,  an'  strong  drink 
is  raginV  Dr.  Grant  don't  read  his  Bible  as  he'd 
ought  to." 

"There  ain't  nothin'  in  the  Bible  aginst  beef-tea,  I 
guess,"  feebly  piped  his  wife.  "  I  do  feel  as  though 
that  would  fetch  me  up.  Can't  you  get  a  piece  o' 
meat  down  to  the  slaughter,  deacon  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  see  no  need  on't,  Sarepty :  you're  doin' 
reasonable  well.  Meat  is  reel  costly ;  an'  pomperin' 
the  flesh  is  sinful.  I'll  git  another  cod-fish  next  time  I 
go  to  the  store:  that's  nourishin'.  I  don't  hold  to 
Grant's  idees  entire.  Besides,  'twa'n't  nothin'  what 
he  said  :  he  come  as  a  friend." 

The  poor  woman  burst  into  tears.  Indignation  gave 
her  momentary  strength :  she  did  not  hear  the  shed- 
door  open  behind  her  ;  but  she  rose  in  her  chair  like  a 
spectre,  and  looked  at  him  with  burning  eyes. 

"  Amasy  Flint,  I  b'lieve  you'd  a  sight  rather  I'd  die 


404  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

than  live.  I  hain't  had  decent  vittles  since  I  was  took 
sick,  nor  no  care  whatever.  You're  a  loud  pray-er  an' 
reader ;  but,  if  'twa'n't  for  the  name  of  it,  I  b'lieve 
you'd  kill  me  with  the  axe  instead  of  starvation.  I've 
a  good  mind  to  send  for  Squire  Battle,  and  swear  the 
peace  against  ye." 

Deacon  Flint  at  this  moment  saw  a  shocked  face 
behind  his  wife's  chair :  it  was  Polly  Morse.  His 
acuteness  came  to  the  rescue.  "She's  a  leetle  out," 
he  said,  nodding  to  the  unexpected  guest.  ' '  Come 
right  along,  Polly." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  weak  woman  to  bear.  She 
fell  back,  and  fainted.  Her  indignation  had  overborne 
her  weakness  for  a  moment,  but  exhausted  it  also. 
And,  when  she  awoke  to  life,  Polly  was  rubbing  her, 
and  crying  over  her  ;  but  her  husband  had  gone.  Those 
tears  of  sympathy  were  more  than  she  could  endure 
silently.  She  put  her  arms  round  Polly's  neck,  and, 
sobbing  like  a  child,  poured  out  the  long  list  of  her 
sorrows  into  that  faithful  ear. 

"Bless  your  dear  soul!"  said  Polly,  wiping  her 
eyes,  "you  can't  tell  me  nothing  new  about  him. 
Didn't  I  summer  an'  winter  him,  so  to  speak,  afore  you 
come  here  ?  Don't  I  know  what  killed  the  fust  woman  ? 
'Twa'n't  no  fever,  ef  they  did  call  it  so.  'Twas  livin' 
with  him  —  want  o'  food,  an'  fire,  an'  loviii' -kindness. 
Don't  tell  me.  I  pitied  ye  afore  ye  was  married,  an'  I 
hain't  stopped  yit." 

But  Polly's  words  were  not  words  only.  From  that 
day  on,  many  a  cup  of  broth,  vial  of  currant- wine, 
or  bit  of  hot  stewed  chicken,  found  its  way  surrepti 
tiously  to  Mrs.  Flint ;  and  her  strength  of  mind  and 
body  returned  fast,  with  this  sympathy  for  one,  and 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      405 

food  for  the  other.  She  made  up  her  mind  at  last 
that  she  would  leave  her  husband,  at  least  for  a  time, 
and  in  her  own  house  endeavor  to  find  the  peace  and 
rest  necessary  to  her  entire  recovery.  If  she  could 
have  seen  Mind  well  and  Sam,  and  taken  counsel  with 
them,  her  course  might  have  been  different ;  but  the 
roads  were  now  well-nigh  impassable  from  deep  mud, 
and  she  could  not  get  to  Colebrook,  and  in  sheer  des 
peration  she  resolved  to  leave  her  present  home  as 
soon  as  Hiram  Smith  moved  from  the  farmhouse. 
Fortunately  for  her,  the  deacon  had  to  attend  town- 
meeting,  three  miles  off,  on  the  first  Monday  in  April ; 
and,  with  Polly  and  Israel  to  help  her,  Mrs.  Flint  was 
established  in  the  other  house  before  he  returned,  and 
found  her  flown.  His  wrath  was  great  but  still.  He 
said  and  did  nothing,  never  went  near  her,  and,  for 
very  shame's  sake,  did  not  speak  of  her  —  for  what 
could  he  say? 

Perhaps  in  that  solitary  house,  whose  silence  was 
like  balm  to  her  weary  and  fevered  soul,  she  might 
have  starved  but  for  the  mercy  of  her  neighbors. 
Polly  Morse  had  a  tongue  of  swiftness,  and  it  never 
wagged  faster  than  in  Mrs.  Flint's  behalf.  Dr.  Grant 
sent  half  a  barrel  of  flour  to  that  destitute  dwelling, 
and  Israel,  a  bushel  of  apples.  Polly,  out  of  her  pov 
erty,  shared  her  kit  of  pork  with  the  poor  woman  ;  and 
Hiram  Smith  brought  in  a  barrel  of  potatoes  and  a  bag 
of  meal,  which  he  duly  charged  against  her  account 
with  the  farm.  But  there  were  many  who  dared  not 
help  her ;  for  the  deacon  held  notes  and  mortgages  on 
many  a  house  and  of  many  a  man  in  Bassett  who  could 
not  afford  to  offend  him .  And  old  Parson  Roberts  was 
just  then  shut  up  with  an  attack  of  low  fever :  so  he 


406  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

knew  nothing  about  the  matter.  However,  the  deacon 
was  not  long  to  be  left  nursing  his  wrath.  Food  and 
lire  are  not  enough  for  life  sometimes.  The  old  house 
was  leaky,  damp,  comfortless  ;  and  in  a  few  weeks 
Mrs.  Flint  was  taken  again  with  disease  of  the  lungs, 
and  Polly  Morse  found  her  in  her  bed,  unable  to  speak 
loud,  -her  fire  gone  out,  and  the  rain  dripping  down  in 
the  corner  of  her  bedroom.  Polly  had  come  to  tell 
her  that  Israel  was  going  to  Colebrook  to  buy  a  pig, 
and  would  take  any  message.  She  did  not  tell  her, 
but,  stepping  to  the  door,  called  to  him  across  the  yard 
to  tell  Sam  Pratt  he  must  come  over  to  Bassett  directly. 
This  done,  she  hunted  about  for  something  to  make  a 
fire,  and  then  looked  for  the  tea ;  but  there  was  none. 
Nothing  like  food  remained  but  a  half -loaf  of  bread 
and  some  cold  potatoes  :  so  she  had  to  break  the  bread 
up  in  some  hot  water,  and  feed  the  exhausted  woman 
slowly,  while  she  chafed  her  icy  feet,  and  covered  her 
closely  with  her  own  shawl.  The  next  day  Sam  and 
Mindwell  came  over,  shocked  and  indignant,  their 
wagon  loaded  with  provisions  ;  and  the  old  house  was 
soon  filled  with  odors  of  beef -broth,  milk-porridge, 
fragrant  tea  and  toast,  and  the  sharp  crackle  of  a  great 
fire  in  two  rooms  ;  while,  best  of  all,  tender  hands  fed 
and  soothed  the  poor  woman,  and  soft  filial  kisses 
comforted  her  starved  soul. 

Mindwell  could  not  stay,  —  there  was  a  little  baby  at 
home,  —  but  Sam  would  be  left  behind  while  old  Israel 
drove  her  back  to  Colebrook,  and  fetched  Mabel 
Eldridge  to  take  her  place. 

Mab  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  when  she  entered 
the  kitchen. 

11 1  knew  it !  "  she  sobbed  :  "  I  knew  that  old  wretch 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      407 

would  kill  her!  "  And  it  was  long  before  Sam  could 
calm  her  anger  and  grief,  and  bring  her  in  to  the 
invalid. 

In  the  course  of  two  or  three  weeks,  however,  Mab's 
faithful  nursing,  and  Sam's  care  and  providing,  brought 
back  life  and  some  strength  to  the  perishing  woman. 
And  meanwhile  Polly's  tongue  had  wagged  well :  it 
flew  all  over  Bassett  that  Deacon  Flint's  wife  had  left 
him,  and  almost  died  of  cold  and  hunger. 

To-day  such  a  rumor  would  have  had  some  direct 
effect  on  its  object ;  but  then  to  find  fault  with  authori 
ties  was  little  less  than  a  sin,  and  for  a  wife  to  leave 
her  husband,  a  fearful  scandal.  In  spite  of  the  facts 
and  all  their  witnesses,  the  sentiment  of  Bassett  went 
with  the  deacon.  Conjugal  subjection  was  the  fashion, 
or  rather  the  principle  and  custom,  of  the  day,  and 
was  to  be  upheld  in  spite  of  facts.  However,  Parson 
Roberts  by  this  time  had  heard  of  the  matter,  and 
called  Deacon  Flint  to  account,  thinking  it  to  be  his 
duty. 

"This  is  the  hull  sum  and  substance  on't,  parson," 
explained  the  deacon  :  "  Miss  Flint  is  a  miser'ble  hys- 
tericky  female,  a  dreadful  weak  vessel,  and  noways 
inclined  to  foller  Scripter  in  the  marriage-relation. 
I've  gin  her  the  same  livin'  I  had  myself.  I  hain't 
denied  her  food  an'  raiment  wherewith  she  had  ought 
to  be  content,  as  the  'Postle  Poll  says.  But  she  is  real 
pernickity,  and  given  to  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  about  her 
eatin'  ;  and  I  feel  it  to  be  my  dooty  to  be  a  faithful 
stooard  of  my  substance,  and  not  pomper  up  our  poor 
perishin'  bodies,  while  there  is  forty  million  more  or 
less  o'  heathen  creturs  lyin'  in  wickedness  in  foreign 
parts.  Ye  know,  parson,  I  hain't  never  stented  my 


408  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

contributions  to  them  things :  I've  ben  constant  to 
means  of  grace  allus,  and  I  may  say  a  pillar  —  mabbe 
a  small  and  creaky  one,  but  still  a  pillar  —  in  the  tem 
ple  sech  as  'tis.  I  don't  know  as  I  had  ought  to  be 
disturbed  by  this  strife  of  tongues." 

Parson  Roberts  was  a  little  confounded.  He  himself 
loved  a  bit  of  good  eating,  —  a  can  tie  of  chicken-pie,  a 
tender  roast  pig,  a  young  chicken  broiled  on  hickory 
coals,  or  a  succulent  shad  from  the  Connecticut,  washed 
down  with  sparkling  cider  or  foaming  flip, — and  the 
consciousness  of  this  mild  weakness  gave  undue  exal 
tation  to  Deacon  Flint's  boasted  asceticism.  The  par 
son  was  too  honestly  humble  to  see  that  Deacon  Flint 
loved  money  with  a  greed  far  surpassing  that  of  any 
epicure  ;  that  his  own  fault  was  but  a  failing,  while  the 
other  was  a  passion.  Besides,  he  considered  that  Mrs. 
Flint  had  made  light  of  the  sacred  ordinance  of  mar 
riage,  and  set  an  awful  example  to  the  wives  of  the 
parish :  so  he  went  away  from  this  interview  convinced 
that  the  deacon  was  a  stern  saint,  and  his  wife  a  weak 
sinner. 

Next  day,  however,  the  deacon  himself  was  sur 
prised  by  another  visit.  Pale  and  worn,  clinging  tight 
to  Sam  Pratt' s  arm,  and  followed  by  Mabel  carrying  a 
cushion,  his  wife  entered  the  kitchen,  where  he  sat  de 
vouring  salt  pork  and  potatoes  with  the  zest  of  a  dog 
who  gnaws  his  bone  unmolested. 

"I  come  back,  Amasy,  to  see  if  we  couldn't  agree 
to  get  along  together  agin,"  she  said  weakly  and 
meekly.  "I  hear  there's  ben  consider' ble  talk  about 
my  leavin'  on  ye,  and  I  don't  want  to  cast  no  reflec 
tions.  I  was  tired  all  out,  an'  I  wanted  to  rest  a  spell. 
Sam  an'  Mab  has  nursed  me  up,  so't  I  could  get  along 
now,  I  guess." 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      409 

The  man  turned  his  cold  green-gray  eyes  on  her 
slowly.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  want  to  eome  back 
for  now,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  I  want  for  to  do  my  duty  so  far  as  I  can." 

4 '  You  had  oughter  have  considered  that  afore  you 
went  off, ' '  was  the  dogged  answer. 

Tears  ran  down  the  poor  woman's  face :  she  could 
not  speak.  Mabel's  beautiful  eyes  blazed  with  wrath  : 
she  made  a  step  forward ;  but  Sam  Pratt  gently  put 
her  back,  and  said,  — 

"  Look  here,  Deacon  Flint.  Mother  left  you  because 
she  hadn't  food,  nor  care,  nor  nothing  she  needed, 
nyther  when  she  was  sick,  nor  when  she  was  gettin' 
better.  She  thought  a  spell  o'  rest  would  do  her  good. 
She  knowed  by  that  smart  contrack  you  got  out  of  her 
that  you  owed  her  a  livin'  anyhow  ;  and  you  hain't 
clone  a  thing  to'rds  it  sence  she  went  to  her  own  house. 
Now,  I  don't  call  that  conduct  honest,  by  no  means, 
much  less  Christian." 

"Jedge  not,  Samwell  Pratt.  Scripter,  no  less'n 
statoot  law,  commands  a  wife  to  be  subjeck  to  her  hus 
band.  Sarepty  had  what  I  had.  I  done  what  I  j edged 
best  for  her ;  and,  instead  of  submittin'  to  her  head, 
she  up  and  went  off  to  live  by  herself,  and  lef '  me  to 
git  along  as  I  could.  I  wa'n't  noway  bound  by  no  law 
nor  no  contrack  to  supply  her  with  means,  so  long  as 
she  went  away  from  her  dooties,  and  made  me  an  as 
tonishment  an'  a  hissin'  in  Israel,  so  to  speak." 

"  Stop  right  there  !  "  broke  in  Mabel,  furious.  "  I've 
heard  say  the  Devil  could  fetch  Scripter  to  further  his 
own  purposes,  and  I  b'lieve  it.  Didn't  you  have  no 
duties  to  your  wife?  Don't  the  Bible  say  you've  got 
to  love  and  cherish  her?  Don't  tell  me  !  I  lived  here 


410  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

long  enough  to  see  you  starve  and  browbeat  and  tor 
ment  her.  I  know  your  mean,  hateful,  crabbed  wa}7s  ; 
and  I  don't  know  how  she  lived  with  you  so  long.  She 
ought  to  have  run  away  years  ago  ;  and,  if  folks  do  hiss 
at  you,  it's  more'n  time  they  did.  Christian  !  — you  a 
Christian !  You're  a  dyed-in-the-wool  hypocrite.  If 
you're  pious,  I  hope  I  shall  be  a  reprobate." 

"I  ha'n't  no  doubt  but  what  you  will  be,  young 
woman,"  answered  the  deacon  with  cold  fury. 
"  You'd  ought  to  be  put  under  the  pump  this  minnit, 
for  a  common  scold.  Get  out  of  my  house,  right 
off!" 

And  with  this  he  advanced  upon  her.  But  Sam 
Pratt,  lifting  the  old  lady  in  his  arms,  carried  her  away, 
and  gently  shoved  Mabel,  glowing  with  rage,  before 
them  till  they  reached  the  wagon.  Then  he  himself 
went  back,  and  tried  to  make  terms  with  the  deacon. 
At  last,  moved  by  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Sam's  argu 
ment,  that  it  would  put  him  in  a  bad  light  before  peo 
ple  if  he  refused  to  do  any  thing  for  his  wife,  he  did 
agree  to  let  her  have  half  of  his  share  of  the  produce 
from  her  farm,  if  Sam  and  Mindwell  would  provide  for 
her  other  wants.  And,  making  the  best  of  a  bad  bar 
gain,  the  poor  woman  retired  to  the  old  house,  which 
Sam  had  repaired,  so  that  most  of  it  was  habitable  ; 
and  Mabel,  who  had  agreed  to  teach  the  district  school 
the  next  year,  took  up  her  abode  with  her. 

Now  the  deacon  had  a  clear  field,  and  appeared  in 
the  arena  of  Bassett  in  the  character  of  an  injured  and 
forsaken  husband.  His  prayers  at  meeting  were  longer 
and  more  eloquent  than  ever ;  and  the  church,  sym 
pathizing  with  his  sorrows,  —  the  male  members  espe 
cially  deprecating  Mrs.  Flint's  example,  lest  it  should 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      411 

some  time  be  followed  by  their  own  wives,  —  unani 
mously  agreed  to  withdraw  their  fellowship  from  Mrs. 
Flint,  —  a  proceeding  in  kind,  if  not  in  degree,  like  the 
anathema  of  the  papacy.  The  poor  old  woman  quiv 
ered  under  the  blow,  imparted  to  her  by  Parson  Rob 
erts,  awful  in  the  dignity  of  his  office  and  a  new  wig. 
But  the  parson  was  human  ;  and  the  meek  grief  of  the 
woman,  set  off  by  Mab's  blazing  indignation,  worked 
upon  his  honest  soul,  and  caused  him  to  doubt  a  little 
the  church's  wisdom.  Mab  had  followed  him  across 
the  door-yard  to  the  gate  in  order  to  "  free  her  mind." 

1 '  I  want  to  know  what  you  wanted  that  poor  woman 
to  do,  Parson  Roberts.  She  was  dyin'  by  inches  for 
want  of  vittles  fit  to  eat,  and  the  care  most  folks  would 
give  a  sick  ox.  Do  you  think,  now,  honest,  she'd 
ought  to  have  staid  with  that  old  wretch  ? ' ' 

"  Speak  not  evil  of  dignities,  young  woman.  Amasy 
Flint  is  a  deacon  of  Bassett  church.  It  does  not 
become  you  so  to  revile  him." 

This  glittering  generality  did  not  daunt  Mab  a 
moment. 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  was  deacon  in  the  New  Jerusa 
lem,  or  minister  either.  If  he  was  the  angel  Gabriel, 
and  acted  the  way  he  did  act,  I  shouldn't  have  no  faith 
in  his  piety,  nor  no  patience  with  his  prayers." 

Parson  Roberts  glared  at  her  over  his  spectacles  with 
pious  horror.  "  What,  what,  what !  "  he  sternly  cried. 
4  •  Who  be  you  that  set  in  judgment  on  your  elders 
and  betters  ?  ' ' 

"I'm  one  that's  seen  him  where  you  haven't,  any 
way,  nor  your  church-members.  I've  lived  to  his 
house,  and  I  know  him  like  a  book." 

Was  it  possible,   the  parson  thought,  that  brother 


412  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

Flint  might  have  been  in  fault,  —  just  a  little  ?  But  he 
was  faithful  to  his  dogmas  and  his  education. 

"  Do  not  excuse  the  woman's  sin.  She  has  left  her 
lawful  husband,  threatened  to  swear  the  peace  against 
a  Christian  man  whom  she  was  bound  by  human  and 
divine  law  to  obey,  and  caused  a  scandal  and  a  dis 
turbance  in  the  fold  of  Christ.  Is  this  a  light  matter, 
you  daughter  of  Belial  ?  ' ' 

Mab  laughed,  —  laughed  in  the  parson's  face,  in  full 
front  of  his  majestic  wig,  his  awful  spectacles,  his 
gold-headed  cane  uplifted  in  the  heat  of  argument. 
He  could  not  see  that  she  was  a  little  hysterical.  He 
grew  red  with  ungodly  rage,  but  Mab  did  not  care  a 
pin. 

"You  ain't  a  fool,  Parson  Roberts,"  she  said  un 
dauntedly.  "  You've  got  eyes  in  your  head  ;  and  you'd 
know,  if  you'd  use  'em,  that  Aunt  Flint  is  a  weak 
sister  anyway.  She  wouldn't  turn  no  sooner'n  the 
least  worm  that  ever  was  ;  but  they  will  turn,  if  you 
tread  right  on  'em.  And,  whatever  you  say,  you  know, 
jest  as  well  as  I  do,  that  Amasy  Flint  drove  her  into 
leavin'  him,  and  drove  her  with  a  whip  of  scorpions, 
as  the  Bible  tells  about." 

"Woman,  do  you  mean  to  say  I  lie?"  thundered 
the  parson. 

"Well,  yes  —  if  you  don't  tell  the  truth,"  returned 
Mab,  completely  at  bay  now.  An  audible  chuckle  be- 
trnyed  some  listener ;  and  the  parson,  turning  round, 
beheld  old  Israel  silently  unloading  a  wheelbarrow-load 
of  potatoes  at  the  corner  of  the  fence,  and  wondered 
in  his  soul  how  long  the  man  had  been  there,  but  con 
sidered  it  the  better  part  of  valor  to  leave  the  scene, 
now  that  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  tete-a-tete :  so  he  waved 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      413 

his  hand  at  Mab  with  a  gloomy  scowl,  and  went  his 
way. 

"  Land  o'  liberty !  "  ejaculated  the  old  man,  drawing 
the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  mouth  to  smother  a 
laugh.  "Didn't  you  give  him  jesse  !  I  swan  you're 
the  gal  for  a  free  fight,  now.  He's  heerd  the  fac's  in 
the  case,  if  he  never  did  afore.  Of  all  things  !  What 
be  you  a-cryin'  for  now,  eh?"  For  Mab,  a  real 
woman,  had  flung  her  apron  over  her  face,  and  was 
sobbing  violently.  Uncle  Israel  gently  tried  to  pull  the 
check  screen  away  ;  but  she  held  on  to  it. 

"  Let  me  cry,"  she  said.  "  I  ain't  sorry  :  I'm  mad, 
and  I've  got  to  cry  it  out." 

"Well,"  said  Israel,  returning  to  his  potatoes,  and 
slowly  shaking  his  head,  "  women- folks  air  the  beat- 
eree.  I  don't  know  nothing  about  'em,  and  I'm  five 
an'  sixty  year  old  come  Friday.  Lordy  !  there  ain't  no 
riddles  nor  Chinee  puzzle-rings  to  compare  with  'em. 
I've  hed  a  wife,  an'  lost  a  wife,  praise  the  Lord  !  but  I 
never  was  sure  o'  her  even.  I  wouldn't  no  more  try 
it  agin  than  I'd  slip  down  into  a  bee-tree ;  for  there's 
full  as  much  stings  as  honey  to  'em,  and,  take  an  ever- 
idge,  I  guess  there's  more." 

Whether  or  not  the  parson's  silent  ideas  coincided 
with  those  Israel  expressed  is  not  for  the  ignorant 
chronicler  to  say  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  his  candid  and 
generous  soul  was  so  far  moved  by  Mab's  tirade,  how 
ever  he  denied  and  defied  it  during  its  delivery,  that 
the  next  day  he  resolved  to  call  in  a  council  of  his 
neighboring  brethren  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  indorse 
or  reprobate  the  action  of  his  own  church. 

So  he  wrote  to  the  Rev.  Ami  Dobbins  of  Dorset, 
and  the  Rev.  Samuel  Jehoram  Hill  of  Bassington, 


414  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

better  known  as  Father  Hill ;  and,  in  compliance  with 
his  request,  they  repaired  to  Bassett,  and  investigated 
the  matter.  Being  advised  of  the  pastor,  who  had  had 
his  experiences,  they  went  to  Mrs.  Flint's  during  school- 
hours  ;  and  Mabel  had  no  chance  to  pour  out  her  soul 
before  them.  They  encountered  only  a  pale,  depressed, 
•weak  woman,  who  was  frightened  out  of  what  little 
heart  was  left  her  by  past  trials,  when  these  two  august 
personages  came  into  her  presence,  and  with  severe 
countenances  began  their  catechism  of  her  life  with 
Deacon  Flint.  As  in  the  case  of  many  another  woman, 
her  terror,  her  humiliation,  and  a  lingering  desire  to 
shield  her  husband  from  his  own  misdeeds,  all  conspired 
against  her.  Her  testimony  was  tearful,  confused,  and 
contradictory  ;  though  through  it  all  she  did  feebly  insist 
on  her  own  sufferings,  and  depicted  them  in  honest 
colors.  From  her  they  went  to  the  deacon,  whom  they 
found  resigned,  pious,  and  loftily  superior  to  common 
things  ;  then  he  was  a  man,  and  a  deacon  !  Is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  that  their  letter  to  the  church  at  Bassett 
was  in  the  deacon's  favor?  They  did  indeed  own  that 
Mrs.  Flint  had  "  peculiar  trials,"  but  went  on  to  say,  — 
"  Nevertheless,  she  cannot  be  fully  justified,  but  has 
departed  from  meekness  and  a  Christian  spirit  .  .  . 
particularly  in  indulging  angry  and  passionate  expres 
sions,  tending  to  provoke  and  irritate  her  husband  ;  and, 
however  unjustifiable  his  conduct  may  be,  that  doth  not 
exculpate  her.  We  think  that  it  would  be  proper  and 
suitable  for  her  to  make  suitable  reflections,  acknowl 
edge  she  hath  given  her  brethren  and  sisters  of  the 
church  occasion  of  stumbling  and  to  be  dissatisfied ; 
and,  upon  her  manifesting  a  becoming  spirit  of  meek 
ness  and  love,  we  think  they  ought  to  restore  her :  but, 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      415 

if  she  should  refuse  to  make  such  reflections,  they  can 
not  consistently  receive  her." 

And  with  a  few  added  remarks  on  the  perplexity  of 
the  case,  and  advising  the  church  to  call  the  ecclesias 
tical  council,  the  Rev.  Ami  Dobbins  and  Father  Hill 
retired  for  the  present. 

But  Bassett  was  not  content.  Weeks  passed,  and  no 
act  of  confession  or  contrition  came  from  this  poor  old 
offender.  To  tell  the  truth,  Mabel  stood  behind  her 
now,  afire  with  honest  rage  at  the  way  she  had  been 
put  upon. 

"You  sha'n't  do  it,  aunty!  "  she  said,  with  all  her 
native  vehemence. 

4 '  You  confess  !  I  like  that !  It  is  that  old  hypo 
crite's  place  to  confess.  He  drove  you  out,  now  when 
you  get  down  to  it ;  and  he  hain't  asked  you  to  come 
back,  that  I've  heard  tell.  I'd  let  him  and  the  church, 
and  Bassett  too,  go  to  thunder,  if  they're  a  mind  to. 
If  you  make  '  suitable  reflections,'  they'll  reflect  on  old 
Flint  and  Bassett  church-members.  Dear  me  !  I  know 
one  thing :  I'd  rather  be  an  old  maid  ten  times  over 
than  married  to  that  man." 

A  faint  smile  crept  over  the  old  woman's  pale  face. 
From  her  high  pillows  she  had  a  good  outlook,  and 
more  than  once  she  had  seen  an  interview  by  the  little 
gate  that  did  not  augur  long  maidenhood  for  Mab. 

"Well,  Mabel,  if  that's  your  say,  why,  it  behooves 
you  to  be  real  cautious,  though  I  don't  know  as  Sam 
Pratt' s  brother  could  be  anyways  other  than  good." 

Mab  blushed  like  a  Provence  rose,  but  said  nothing, 
yet  day  after  day  kept  hardening  her  aunt's  heart  as 
well  as  she  knew  how ;  and  Parson  Roberts,  receiving 
no  ' '  reflections ' '  from  the  offender,  and  having  great 


416  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

faith  in  Father  Hill's  power  of  persuasion,  invited  him 
to  come  again  by  himself,  and  hold  a  conversation  with 
sister  Flint  on  the  subject  of  her  trials  and  her  contu 
macy. 

Father  Hill  was  a  quaint,  gentle,  sweet-natured  old 
man,  steeped,  however,  in  the  prejudices  of  his  time 
and  his  faith.  He,  too,  went  to  the  house  mailed  with 
his  fixed  assurance  of  ecclesiastical  dignity  and  marital 
supremacy.  Sympathy,  pity,  comprehension  of  her 
side  of  the  case,  would  have  disarmed  Mrs.  Flint  com 
pletely  ;  she  would  have  sobbed,  confessed,  laid  her 
hand  on  her  mouth,  and  her  mouth  in  the  dust,  and 
been  ready  to  own  herself  the  chief  of  sinners  :  but  to 
be  placed  in  the  wrong  from  the  first,  reproved,  ad 
monished,  and  treated  as  an  impenitent  and  hardened 
culprit,  made  it  easier  for  her  weak  nature  to  accept 
the  situation  than  to  defy  or  to  deny  it.  Nothing 
Father  Hill  could  say  moved  her,  but  her  dull  and 
feeble  obstinacy  stirred  his  tender  heart  to  its  depths  : 
he  felt  a  despair  of  human  means  and  a  yearning  ten 
derness  that  could  find  no  outlet  but  in  prayer.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  before  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been 
sitting,  and  lifted  his  earnest  face  to  heaven. 

"  O  dear  Lord  and  Master,"  he  said,  speaking  even 
as  a  man  unto  his  friend,  u  thou  hast  borne  our  griefs, 
and  carried  our  sorrows.  Thou  knowest  by  heart 
every  pain  and  woe  that  we  feel.  A  stranger  cannot 
intermeddle,  but,  O  thou  Hope  of  Israel,  why  shouldst 
thou  be  as  a  stranger  that  passeth  by,  and  a  wayfar 
ing  man  that  tarrieth  but  a  night,  in  this  dwelling  of 
thy  handmaid?  Dear  Lord,  it  is  not  in  man  that  walk- 
eth  to  direct  his  own  steps,  how  much  less  the  steps  of 
others  !  .Come  thou  in  the  might  of  thy  great  gentle- 


417 


ness  and  thine  all-knowing  sympathy  and  love,  and 
show  this  child  of  thine  the  right  way,  saying,  '  Walk 
ye  .in  it.'  Thou  knowest  every  sorrow  she  has  passed 
through,  every  bitter  draught  she  has  drunk,  every  sin 
she  has  been  led  into :  yea,  when  she  said  there  was 
no  comforter,  thine  eye  pitied  and  thine  arm  waited 
to  save  her,  though  the  eye  of  flesh  saw  it  not.  Come 
now,  and  place  beneath  her  weary  heart  and  failing 
flesh  the  everlasting  arms  of  thy  overflowing  love  and 
care  ;  give  her  peace  and  rest ;  give  her  an  understand 
ing  heart ;  above  all,  with  thy  love  and  pity  redeem 
her,  as  thou  didst  the  elder  Israel,  and  bring  her  with 
tender  leading  and  divine  affection,  not  only  into  thy 
fold  on  earth,  but  to  the  general  assembly  and  church 
of  the  first-born  in  heaven.  And  to  thee  shall  be 
praise  and  love  and  glory  forever.  Amen." 

When  he  arose,  his  old  face  fair  with  the  shining  of 
the  mount  from  whence  he  came  down,  the  poor 
woman,  who  had  dropped  her  head  on  her  hand,  lifted 
it,  and  tried  to  thank  him  ;  but  streaming  tears  choked 
her,  and  behind  the  door  into  the  shed  a  stifled  sob 
betrayed  some  hidden  auditor. 

"Farewell!"  said  Father  Hill,  and  with  a  look  of 
heavenly  benignity  went  out  from  the  house.  His  deep 
and  earnest  piety  had  got  the  better  of  his  dogmas  ; 
and,  so  strange  is  human  nature,  he  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  it.  But  on  his  departing  steps  the  shed- 
door  opened,  and  Mab  came  in,  her  face  all  washed 
with  tears. 

"  That  man's  got  religion,"  she  said  decisively. 
' '  I  never  heerd  a  mortal  creature  pray  like  that : 
seemed  as  though  he  see  right  into  glory,  and  talked 
face  to  face  with  the  Lord.  If  that's  bein'  pious,  I 
wish  I  was  as  pious  as  fury  myself." 


418  SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

"He's  a  good  man,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Flint;  "one  of 
the  Lord's  an'inted,  I  make  no  doubt.  And,  Mabel, 
I  don't  know  but  what  I  have  did  wrong.  I  ain't 
noways  heavenly-minded  like  him  :  mabbe  I  had  ought 
to  have  put  up  with  every  thing." 

"  No,  you  hadn't :  that  ain't  so.  But  if  it's  goin'  to 
make  you  easier,  aunty,  to  'make  reflections,'  as  old 
Parson  Roberts  says,  why,  make  'em :  only  don't  tell 
no  lies  to  the  church  because  you've  got  into  a  heav 
enly  mood  all  to  once.  Folks  that  ain't  just  to  them 
selves  don't  never  get  justice  elsewheres,  now  I  tell 
you." 

Father  Hill,  despairing  of  having  impressed  Mrs. 
Flint,  had  cast  the  matter  into  his  Master's  hands, 
and  from  his  study  in  Bassington  sent  a  letter  to  Par 
son  Roberts,  running  thus  :  — 

"REV'D  AND  DEAR  BROTHER,  —  I  have  had  Opportunity 
with  Mrs.  Flint,  and  find  that  she  conceived  her  leaving  the 
Deacon  was  a  real  duty  at  that  time ;  that  her  Recovery  under 
Providence  turned  upon  it;  that  she  did  not  then  foresee  the 
Consequences  that  such  a  step  would  issue  in  her  final  Sepa 
ration.  .  .  .  She  stands  ready  to  reflect  upon  herself  as  far  as 
she  can  be  convinced  she  ought  to  do  so,  but  thinks  the  fault 
is  not  on  her  Side  as  things  now  are. 

"I  feel  unable  to  direct  or  advise  further.  The  cause  of 
Religion,  the  cause  of  the  Christian  Church,  you  are  very  sen 
sible,  is  of  more  Consequence  than  the  Honor  or  Pease  of  any 
individual.  If  such  a  settlement  can  be  made  as  may  secure 
Religion  from  suffering,  it  must  be  an  object  to  be  desired. 
.  .  .  Sensible  of  the  Embarrassments  you  and  the  church 
labor  under,  and  desirous  to  contribute  my  mite,  I  use  this 
Freedom. 

"  This  from  your  affectionate  Brother, 

"SAMUEL  J.  HILL. 
"To  REV'D  MB.  ROBERTS. 

"  To  be  communicated  if  you  think  expedient." 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      419 

But,  while  the  ministers  were  in  this  strait  about 
their  obstinate  parishioner,  the  Lord  had  answered 
Father  Hill,  unknown  to  himself,  while  he  was  yet 
speaking.  Moved,  and  indeed  melted,  by  the  love 
and  sympathy  that  prayer  showed,  Mrs.  Flint,  no 
longer  hindered  by  Mabel,  prepared  herself  to  write 
' '  proper  reflections ' '  to  the  church  ;  but  in  doing  so 
was  also  perpetually  prompted  by  Mabel  not  to  traitor 
ously  deny  her  own  cause,  or  slip  aside  from  the  truth 
in  a  voluntary  humility  ;  and  in  due  time  the  following 
confession  was  laid  before  that  august  body  :  — 

"I,  the  subscriber,  Sarepta  Flint,  a  member  of  the  church 
of  Christ  in  Bassett,  sensible  that  the  Church  are  dissatisfied 
with  me  on  account  of  the  Separation  that  has  taken  place 
between  Deacon  Flint  and  myself,  and  that  they  are  Appre 
hensive  that  I  have  not  been  innocent  as  to  measures  which 
have  led  to  this  unhappy  Event,  whereby  Religion  is  wounded 
and'  the  Pease  of  the  Church  disturbed,  take  this  opportunity 
to  publickly  acknowledge  myself  a  poor,  imperfect  Creture, 
and  to  own  that  under  my  Weak  state  of  Body  and  weakness 
of  mind,  with  which  I  was  attended  at  one  Time  or  another, 
I  no  doubt  manifested  on  certain  Occasions  an  unsuitable 
Temper  of  mind,  said  and  Did  things  which  under  other  Cir 
cumstances  I  should  not  have  said  or  done.  I  am  far  from 
justifying  myself  in  all  my  conduct.  Particular  I  would 
reflect  on  myself  for  that  Expresion  in  regard  to  swearing  the 
Pease  against  Deacon  Flint.  ...  I  ask  the  Forgivness  of  God 
and  this  church,  and  of  all  others  who  are  aggrieved,  and 
request  the  prayers  of  my  Christian  Brethren  and  Sisters  that 
I  henceforth  conduct  as  a  true  and  faithful  Disciple  of  Christ, 
and  adorn  the  Solem  Yocation  by  which  I  am  called. 

•"SAKEPTA  FLINT. 

"P.S. —  i  stand  ready  also  to  return  to  my  Husband  as 
soon  as  a  suitable  Door  opens  for  that  Purpose." 

Perhaps  something  in  the  self-respecting  yet  honest 
humility  of  this  document  touched  the  heart  of  Bassett 


420       SOMEBODY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

church ;  or  perhaps  only  their  self-love  and  pride  of 
place  was  soothed  by  it.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  confes 
sion  was  accepted ;  and  Parson  Roberts,  with  a  valor 
and  persistence  that  did  him  honor,  insisted  that 
Deacon  Flint  should  go  with  him  to  inform  his  wife 
of  her  release  from  interdict,  and  also  to  open  that 
' '  Door  ' '  of  reconciliation  to  which  she  had  so  patheti 
cally  alluded.  The  parson's  wig  was  fresh  buckled,  the 
deacon's  cue  new  wound  and  tied,  and  their  sabbath-day 
garments  prim  and  speckless,  as  the  next  morning  they 
opened  the  door  of  the  old  house  where  Sarepta  Flint 
had  taken  refuge  from  her  oppressor.  A  scene  they 
little  expected  met  their  eyes.  On  the  low  bed,  covered 
with  its  rough  blue  homespun  spread,  lay  an  evidently 
dying  figure.  A  more  "  Solem  Vocation"  than  life 
had  called  Deacon  Flint's  wife,  and  she  was  about  to 
obey.  Mindwell  and  Sam  Pratt  upheld  her  as  she 
gasped  for  breath,  and  the  two  children  clung  together 
sobbing  at  her  feet ;  while  Mabel,  with  Joe  Pratt' s  arm 
about  her,  and  her  face  streaming  with  tears  she  did 
not  feel,  stood  by  the  bedside  gazing  at  her  friend. 
Her  face  blazed  as  the  deacon  and  Parson  Roberts 
entered  ;  but,  roused  by  the  click  of  the  latch,  Mrs. 
Flint  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  the  youthful  pair 
with  a  gentle  smile.  They  had  been  the  one  bright 
outlook  of  her  latter  life,  and  to  them  she  gave  her 
last  smile  ;  for,  as  her  eyes  turned  toward  her  husband, 
a  cold  terror  filled  them,  the  lids  fell,  her  head  drooped 
on  MindwelPs  shoulder,  and  with  one  long,  shuddering 
sigh  she  escaped  forever.  The  forgiveness  of  the 
church  and  the  condescension  of  her  husband  came  too 
late :  she  was  already  safe  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling,  and  the  Consoler  dries  all  mortal  tears. 


MRS.  FLINT'S  MARRIED  EXPERIENCE.      421 

Deacon  Flint  stood  like  a  stone.  Did  remorse 
trouble  him  ?  Was  regret  busy  at  his  heart  ?  Or  did 
he  feel  a  bitter  and  deep  chagrin  at  the  loss  of  so  much 
income  ? 

Mabel's  tears  ceased  :  she  withdrew  from  Joe's  arm, 
and  went  round  to  where  Deacon  Flint  stood.  "Are 
you  proper  pleased  now  ? ' '  she  said  in  a  low  voice  of 
concentred  contempt  and  rage.  "You've  got  her 
turned  out  of  church,  and  into  heaven.  You  won't 
never  see  her  again,  —  no,  never !  not  to  all  eternity. 
But  you've  killed  her  as  good  as  if  you  took  an  axe  to 
her.  You  can  take  that  hum  to  sleep  on." 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Parson  Roberts,  with  all  the  dignity 
a  little  man  could  give  to  his  voice  and  manner. 
"When  the  Lord  giveth  quietness,  who,  then,  can 
make  trouble?" 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  Joe  Pratt  —  his  face  full  of 
black  wrath  —  set  his  hand  to  the  deacon's  collar, 
and  walked  him  summarily  into  the  road.  Mabel  had 
spoken  truth :  never  again  did  he  see  his  wife's  face, 
not  even  in  the  fair  peace  of  death.  Whether  ever,  in 
that  far  world  of  souls,  they  met  again,  is  perhaps 
doubtful :  let  us  pray  not.  Mrs.  Flint's  married  expe 
rience  was  over  in  this  world  a  hundred  years  ago, 
and  in  the  next  ' '  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in 
marriage." 


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